


Taking Care of You (Is Not Easy to Do)

by Aate



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Injured Thorin, Misunderstandings, Scared Bilbo, escaping, execution attempt, prolonged use of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 86,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aate/pseuds/Aate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dain misunderstands Thorin's order to "take care of Bilbo Baggins" and tries to execute Bilbo. Bilbo manages to escape and runs for his life, unaware that the dwarves after him are trying to apologize to him, not kill him.</p><p>***</p><p><b>WHOEVER IS POSTING MY FICS ON FANFICS.ME WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, PLEASE STOP DOING IT AND REMOVE THEM.</b> The very least you could've done would have been to ask for a permission. Seriously, that's the very basic courtesy! I do not want my fanfics to exist on fanfics.me. I can't make it any clearer than that.</p><p>http://fanfics.me/read2.php?id=161982<br/>http://fanfics.me/read2.php?id=161980</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dain: Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Bring the halfling to my tent as soon as you have found him,' Dain gave his orders. 'To honour my cousin, I shall execute him myself.'"

_Day One_

When Thorin had asked Dain, as an honoured relative, to "take care of Bilbo Baggins", he had simply meant that he wanted Dain to look after Bilbo – to make certain that Bilbo had everything he needed, that Bilbo's future was secured – in case Thorin happened to succumb to his wounds and wouldn't thus be able to look after Bilbo's wellbeing himself. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, Dain interpreted the words as something completely different, and so, after leaving Thorin's tent, he sent three of his warriors to find the hobbit; Bilbo Baggins was to be "taken care of" for once and for good "by order of Thorin Oakenshield".

"Bring the halfling to my tent as soon as you have found him," Dain gave his orders. "To honour my cousin, I shall execute him myself. The hobbit shall die by my hand."

Birun and Hirin, sons of Gurin, and Jugor, son of Gudor, bowed and left, muttering about traitorous hobbits who certainly deserved the direst of consequences after daring to steal from the Durin's folk.

The three muttering warriors passed by Gandalf who was approaching Thorin's tent like an ominious thundercloud. Sighing to himself, Dain gave the wizard a respectful bow, pushing the halfling and Thorin's regretful order momentarily out of his mind.

"Tharkûn," said Dain, once the wizard was close enough to hear his words properly. "I have been led to believe that you have considerable powers – do what you can to save my cousin and you shall be generously rewarded."

"Dwarves!" Gandalf huffed and rapped Dain in the head with his shaft. "What I do, I do for reasons other than the rewards you can promise me, Dain Ironfoot, son of Nain, son of Gror. Make yourself useful and go find me my missing hobbit, while I do what I can for your cousin."

Had Gandalf known that Dain was planning on executing his missing hobbit, he probably would have done something more than simply rapped Dain's head with his shaft. But as it happened, Gandalf didn't know, and so he pushed pass Dain, grumbling in a language Dain didn't understand, swiped the flap aside, and entered the royal tent without waiting to be neither invited nor announced.

Dain didn't bother to search for the missing hobbit, as he had his best warriors up on the task already. Instead, he took his time to visit his kin, visit the young princes who were both gravely injured.

Even though Dain didn't exactly remember which one of the princes was the crown prince and which one was the spare, he came soon to the conclusion that the fairer one was the crown prince, Fili – the fairer one had a longer beard, while the beard of the darker one was barely more than a dwarfling's stubble, which meant that the fairer one was most likely the older one of the two. Both of them were very young and Dain couldn't understand why Thorin had allowed youths - barely more than children - to accompany him to such a dangerous, desperate quest. It angered him that the honoured cousin had done so, young ones were few as it was and their lives shouldn't have been wasted like this.

"Give the princes the best care you possibly can," Dain ordered the healers, noting with concern the way the precious blood of the line of Durin was wasted to the undeserving ground.

Kili – if that truly was the darker prince's name – was injured in the stomach. When Dain craned his neck, he saw guts, from all the blood that was spurting out of the wound, and something that he assumed was muscle tissue. The poor boy was gasping for breath and calling for his mother and uncle and asking after someone called "Fee", while his brother laid completely still and silent and deathly pale, barely breathing at all. The fairer prince had a spear sticking out of his shoulder which – Dain had to admit – looker rather gruesome, especially on such a young lad.

"If you cannot spare people and supplies to save them both," Dain sighed, resigned, rubbing his temples, "concentrate on the one that is more likely to survive and let the other one die. It doesn't really matter which one of them lives as long as at least one does."

"We'll do our best," said one of the healers, a black-bearded one, adjusting her glasses with one hand while reaching for more bandages with the other. She was leaning over Fili, apparently preparing to remove the spear. "If His Lordship is planning on staying in this tent to observe our work, he is welcome to do so, but I would humbly request that he would move his respectfully wide behind nearer to the entrance and keep it there, as that is the only place it wouldn't be in our way. Otherwise, I will personally see him out of my healing tent."

Dain almost smiled at the healer's words – he rather liked healers that dared to challenge him – and dragged a chair to the entrance where he had planned on sitting in the first place. The entrance was a good place to observe what was happening both inside and outside the tent, and so Dain didn't complain, nor did he reprimand the black-bearded healer from ordering him around (even though he did memorize her bulk and angular features, just for future references).

Just as the darker prince fell silent and one of the – apparently less experienced – healers began to swear in Khuzdul, Dain could suddenly see movement near his tent on the other side of the clearing on which all the dwarven tents had been pitched. Immediately, he moved the flap of the tent's entrance aside to see better: Hirin and Jugor had finally managed to find the halfling and were now leading him towards Dain's tent, just as ordered.

Dain stood up, stretching his numb limbs, before moving the chair closer to the desk, back to its original place.

"Well," he said, adjusting his belt, "what does it look like? Will either one of the princes live?"

"Too early to tell," squeaked the less experienced healer, wiping Kili's blood from his sweaty face with the back of his trembling hand. "They are both very badly injured."

"Yes, I had noticed," Dain said drily. "As I said: if one of them is doing better than the other, concentrate on him. Keep me informed about their condition, but more importantly, keep at least one of them alive, if at all possible."

With that, Dain left the healers to work in peace in order to behead Bilbo Baggins.

In all honesty, Dain did feel sorry for the halfling, as he had always had a secret soft spot for the simple-minded people, one of which Dain considered Bilbo Baggins to be. A simpleton – what else could a being like Baggins be, a soft little thing that stole the Arkenstone and then ran around a battlefield _without any shoes on_? Had the situation been different, Dain would have tried to reason with Thorin, asking him to reconsider the harsh penalty, pleading for the hobbit's apparent simplicity.

Reaching his tent, Dain entered, motioning for his warriors to follow on. Once inside and properly shielded from any curious looks, Dain turned to study the hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins had apparently been hit in the temple with something blunt during the battle. The shaft of an orc axe, most likely, but it was difficult to say for certain. There was bruising and blood on the left side of his face and the poor little thing looked even more confused and disoriented than he had the last time Dain had seen him. He appeared to have some trouble balancing and his squinted eyes kept wandering around the tent as if there was something wrong with his vision. The hobbit's hairy feet were dirty and covered with scratches, his clothes torn and bloody. All in all, Bilbo Baggins looked worn and weary but, regretfully, alive.

Dain had secretly hoped that the hobbit had perished in the battle. That way Dain wouldn't have had to execute him; the Lord of the Iron Hills was many things, but a killer of children, elders and simpletons he was not.

Except he was. Or was about to become one, at least.

"How are you feeling, Master Baggins?" Dain asked, deciding it was best to keep the halfling calm by chattering about this and that for as long as possible. No reason to scare the little one quite yet, was there.

"Uh, thank you for asking," the hobbit said, blinking furiously, while Dain went to fetch his execution axe from one of the chests. "I'm a bit... confused, to tell you the truth. I don't- I think I was hit in the head, but I fell unconscious and now everything's a bit... fuzzy. No. Not fuzzy, exactly. I mean that there are two of everything. Two of... everything. But I suppose that happens, sometimes..."

"Oh, yes, yes, that certainly happens," Dain agreed amiably. "At least it can happen when one has a concussion, like you probably do at the moment. Nasty things, concussions. But worry not, simple one, for soon it will all be better and you will feel nothing."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "Well, thank you."

Hirin, Birun and Jugor, surrounding the hobbit, exchanged displeased glances.

" _I would like to remind you, my lord, that the hobbit stole from Thorin Oakenshield_ ," Birun dared to say, having the good sense to speak in Khuzdul to prevent the hobbit from understanding and getting panicked. " _He is a traitor and should be punished accordingly. He should be flogged in public, before you cut his throat and fill many bottles with his blood for all the Durin's folk to enjoy. He doesn't deserve a quick death_."

" _He is a_ simpleton," sighed Dain, using Khuzdul as well. " _And as a simpleton, he should be shown at least some mercy. He cannot help being foolish, can he. I was told to take care of him and I have every intention to do just that, but I_ will _be quick about it. I'm not going to make it any more painful for him than it has to be_."

After some hesitation, Birun inclined his head respectfully, Hirin and Jugor following the suit.

" _As you wish, my lord_ ," he said, although he still looked noticeably discontent – Dain wasn't particularly bothered.

The hobbit didn't offer any resistant when he was taken back outside. He didn't resist at all when Jugor pushed him onto his knees on the dirty ground, apparently thinking that his new position was due to his own current lack of balance. He even apologized for stumbling, sounding embarrassed and painfully sincere. Dain felt a quick stab of guilt. It was wrong to use a simpleton's trust like this, merciful though it also may have been.

While the execution was being prepared – while a suitable block of wood was being located and collected, that was – the hobbit began to ask, rather timidly - but, nevertheless, with determination - after Thorin and the members of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. Had anyone been hurt in the battle, he wanted to know. Where were his friends? None of them had been injured, had they? He hadn't seen anyone he knew, but all his friends were still alive, weren't they? Weren't they, Lord Dain?

Lord Dain?

When he wasn't given any answers, the hobbit began to become agitated. And when the block was placed in front of him and Dain suddenly grasped him by the neck and forced his head against the wooden block, it seemed to finally dawn on the poor thing what was going on.

Sighing to himself, Dain watched as the hobbit's eyes grew large with understanding. It seemed that it was time to get started and to get the execution over with as soon as possible. As necessary as they usually were, executions were rarely anything Dain looked forward to.

"You, Bilbo Baggins, have betrayed Thorin Oakenshield," Dain declared and the hobbit, giving a little start, looked up at him from his uncomfortable position.

Dain forced himself to meet the gaze of the wide eyes, the eyes that stared up at him pleadingly, with desperation, with so many unuttered thoughts and questions.

"By stealing the Arkenstone, you betrayed Thorin Oakenshield and all those who are loyal to him. Now you must face the consequences of your actions. On the orders of Thorin Oakenshield, you shall be taken care of."

The hobbit let out a strangled noise.

"T-Thorin ordered you to k-kill me?" he asked in a choked voice, apparently too shocked to move, as he wasn't struggling one bit.

Giving a curt nod, Dain let go off the halfling's neck and lifted his execution axe in the air, throwing it back. He then said as soothingly as he could, "You won't feel a thing, little one. This axe is in excellent condition and I shall be very quick about it."

"Quick about what?" asked an authoritative voice from behind them and Dain, startled, twirled around, coming face to face with a grim-looking Balin, son of Fundin. Dain let the axe fall down to his side, as it simply wouldn't do to stand in such a threatening poise in front of one of Thorin's most trusted advicors.

"You gave me quite a start, Master Balin, son of Fundin," Dain admitted, letting out a forced chuckle.

The older dwarf didn't look amused at all, as he took a step closer to Dain – Hirin, Birun and Jugor stepped by Dain's side, giving Balin calculating looks, probably to assess the level of threat the angry-looking dwarf was posing to their lord.

"Quick about _what_ , exactly, Dain of Iron Hills?" Balin repeated, something dark flashing in his eyes as his gaze took in the axe. "You are not planning on... doing anything rash with that execution axe, are you? I would suspect that Prince Thorin would get quite upset if you were to execute Master Baggins either on purpose or by accident."

"Actually," Dain said, a tad bit annoyed at being interrupted, as he truly would have liked to have been quick about the execution and hated to make the scared little hobbit to wait, "I am merely following orders of my cousin's: he specifically told me that I was to take care of the hobbit and that's exactly what I am doing. So if you don't mind..."

Dain began to turn around, but to his surprise, his arm was seized by a quick hand. Balin was grasping his arm tightly, firmly, ignoring the warning looks Hirin, Birun and Jugor were giving him.

"An execution," Balin said grimly, studying Dain's face with narrowed eyes, "was not what Prince Thorin had in his mind when he asked you to take care of Master Baggins, of his _friend_. He asked you, as his trusted relative, to make certain that Master Baggins would be well looked after, that he was given warm meals and a comfortable chamber. He didn't ask you to 'take care of Bilbo Baggins' in any way that could cause harm to the hobbit."

Dain and Balin stared at each other for quite a while. Then Dain blinked and frowned. Feeling quite awkward and embarrassed, he turned to look at the hobbit, clearing his throat.

But Bilbo Baggins was nowhere to be seen.

Bilbo Baggins had fled.


	2. Bilbo: Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thorin wanted him dead."

_Day One_

There was something that Bilbo could only call "voiceless roaring" in his mind.

"T-Thorin ordered you to k-kill me?" he managed to choke out.

Dain nodded and withdrew his cold hand from Bilbo's neck.

The wooden block felt rough and unyielding against Bilbo's bruised face, but he was unable to move, even as Dain had just released him. He was frozen to the spot by the cold truth that Thorin hated him enough to want him gone, that Thorin had ordered Dain to kill him, that Thorin wanted him dead.

Thorin wanted him dead.

Thorin had ordered Bilbo to get beheaded. Thorin had ordered his warriors to find Bilbo and to bring him to the execution. Thorin, _Thorin_ , hated Bilbo passionately enough to give orders for him to be killed. Thorin, Bilbo's friend. The one Bilbo cared for, worried for, had protected. The one Bilbo had laughed with, shared stories with, fought a dragon with...

A black axe appeared in Bilbo's line of sight. Dain lifted it up in the air, looking down at Bilbo with something akin to pity in his eyes. Bilbo didn't notice Dain's look, as he couldn't tear his gaze away from the glinting axe. He stared at the horrible weapon, transfixed, not quite processing anything that was happening.

The double vision caused Bilbo to see two Dains. Two Dains, both of them holding similar black axes. Two Dains about to execute him.

"You won't feel a thing, little one," the Dains grunted. "This axe is in an excellent condition and I shall be very quick about it."

"Quick about what?" asked Balin's voice, quite unexpectedly.

Bilbo couldn't look away from the axes for long enough to confirm whether it truly was his friend that had spoken. Instead, he watched as the two Dains turned around and lowered their axes upon recognizing the speaker.

A violent shiver ran through Bilbo when he realized that Dain's axe could have just gone through his neck, cut through his throat, separated his head from his body. Dain could have just hit him with the axe instead of letting it fall to his side. Dain could have just executed him.

By the order of Thorin.

When the realization hit him, when Bilbo fully realized that the dwarves were really about to execute him, that he was about to get killed, that the dwarves were determined to end his life, to prevent him from seeing another sunrise, another day, the voiceless roar in his ears intensified and something sharp wrapped around his heart, clenching it painfully. With a pained gasp, Bilbo began to struggle. He didn't want to die. Not now. And certainly not like this.

Not by the order of his dear friend.

To his surprise, there was no-one holding him down, no hands keeping him in place. Dain's warriors weren't even looking at his way, apparently not believing that Bilbo would run off, even though that was exactly what he was about to do.

Bilbo fumbled for his pocket and put his shaking hand into it, managing to slip the Ring onto his middle finger. As soon as the Ring was on his finger, his surroundings grew grey and shadowy, which meant that the Ring had thankfully worked, that the Ring's magic had once again managed to turn him invisible. It truly was a wonderful ring, most wonderful (though wearing it did make him feel rather anxious).

Bilbo began to crawl away from Dain as silently as he could. The lord was still talking with Balin – yes, the other speaker was indeed Balin, Bilbo noted (or two Balins as it currently looked like to him) – but even though Bilbo's ears heard every word, he was unable to focus on them, unable to fully grasp the meaning of the spoken words. The only words that penetrated the thick fog in his mind were Dain's, "merely following orders," and Balin's, "warm meals."

Bilbo thought it impossible that Balin would have agreed with Thorin on the execution. Balin had always been kind and patient with his hobbit friend, especially after Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone – Balin, perhaps more than the others, had understood that Bilbo had been trying to keep all of them safe. Balin had very likely done all that he could to convince Thorin not to execute Bilbo, and when Thorin hadn't yielded, he had now come to ask Dain whether Bilbo – as a hobbit who valued food – could be served one last warm meal. Balin truly was a good friend.

Even though Bilbo was terrified and quite heartbroken, he was also relieved to realize that Thorin was well enough to be giving orders, that Thorin had survived the fierce battle. Unfortunately, it also appeared that Thorin was still under the curse of the dragon sickness, as he still hadn't come to realize that Bilbo had only stolen the Arkenstone to protect his friends, one of whom Thorin was.

If Thorin had been himself, he would have understood Bilbo's motives, of that Bilbo was certain. Thorin would have understood and felt horribly guilty of his own actions. Never would have Thorin ordered Bilbo to be executed had he been in his right mind.

But Thorin had ordered Bilbo to get executed, so he couldn't be in his right mind. He simply _couldn't_. That was, at least, what Bilbo wanted to believe.

Bilbo was shaken from his thoughts by a loud shout. Looking behind, Bilbo saw that Dain had noticed his disappearance. With a grave-looking Balin by his side, Dain began to yell and to emphasize his frantic yells by waving the black axe about. Dain was yelling orders to his warriors, but it was impossible for Bilbo to tell whether Dain was using Khuzdul or whether he himself was just too confused to understand Dain's words. In any case, Bilbo didn't understand anything, not one word. Even though he didn't understand what was being yelled, it was still quite obvious that Dain's words were about him: the lord was likely giving orders to the other dwarves to find the missing hobbit, the outlaw, the traitor who had dared to avoid getting executed.

Someone had rolled two large water barrels into the middle of the clearing and Bilbo did his best to made his way to them. It wasn't easy, as the ground kept rising and hitting him in the face, while his arms and legs were determined to reach their own, four completely separate destinations. Once Bilbo finally managed to force all of his limbs to follow his command, it became slightly easier to crawl to the two barrels and slip into the narrow gap between them.

Once between the barrels, Bilbo fell down to his side, worn. He pressed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to keep the tears from flowing, trying to keep himself from hearing Dain's shouts, or the agonizing voiceless roar in his mind.

Bilbo knew that he couldn't stay in his shelter for long. If anyone was to move one of the two barrels, even by accident, a hobbit could easily get smashed by the weight of a rolling water barrel.

The trouble was, Bilbo was too weak to do much anything. Even in his confused state of mind, he realized that he was in no condition to try to outrun dwarves. He couldn't stay anywhere near Erebor, as he didn't want to get killed, but it was a long way to the Shire and Bilbo required equipment if he was to even dream about making it back home, especially during the rapidly approaching winter time. If he wanted to stay alive after escaping the execution, he had to be well-prepared, well-rested and very smart – a lot smarter than his friends, smarter than dwarves.

But first, Bilbo needed to rest, desperately. He needed for the fog to leave his mind, for his thoughts to become clearer. He needed time to rest and to... collect himself, before he could even try to form any sort of plans of action.

Bilbo couldn't rest in any place with dwarves running around, certainly not in between two heavy water barrels in the middle of the dwarven camp.

The camps of elves and men were far too far for him to reach in his current condition. He would collapse long before reaching them.

Eventually, he came to the conclusion that the best place for him to rest was probably among the dead wargs, as morbid as it sounded. No-one would think to look for a hobbit among dead wargs, would they, nor would anyone come to look for their missing kin among the beasts and thus find Bilbo by accident. Yes, Bilbo would be quite safe on a pile of dead wargs, as long as he made sure to climb off of it before it was put on fire, before the carcasses were destroyed by burning. He had no intention, after all, to get burnt with the dead beasts.

Bilbo opened his eyes just as Balin and Dain were walking by the barrels, neither one of them noticing Bilbo due to his invisibility. They both looked very anxious, even though Dain didn't have that horrible black axe with him any more.

"... and Thorin certainly won't be pleased," Bilbo heard Balin saying when he removed his hands from his ears.

"Yes, this is indeed very unfortunate," Dain agreed in a grave voice. "Once the hobbit is found, I will make personally certain that he gets what he _truly_ deserves."

Hearing the threat, Bilbo forced himself up to his feet with the help of one of the water barrels. He had to get away, had to go somewhere safer. As soon as possible. If he stayed put, he would eventually be discovered, and he certainly didn't want Dain to give him what he " _truly_ deserved".

Half an hour later, Bilbo was clambering over piles and piles of dead wargs, trying to find a good spot to rest. He was very much aware of the limp muscles of the lifeless animals, as he sank his feet into coarse fur and grasped it with his hands, struggling to move over the large forms. The thick, pungent smell of the predators filled his nose and mouth, leaving him gasping for breath, while all of his senses roared at him to _run away_ , to hide before he would get eaten. His Baggins side was calling him a mad fool for climbing on top of the monstrous beasts instead of seeking for a more sensible refuge from somewhere safer, while the Took in him insisted that a pile of dead wargs was really an excellent place to hide (temporarily).

The world was spinning around him and Bilbo laid down against a warg in order not to collapse on his feet. He was panting and trying not to think of his surroundings.

Bilbo was scared, honestly scared, scared enough to hide among wargs. He had been scared before in his life, of course, and often at that, but usually when he was scared, he wasn't scared of his friends. Usually when he was scared, he wasn't running from people he cared for. Usually his friends weren't after him, after his blood. Now they were, though, and Bilbo simply couldn't grasp the fact.

Bilbo had seen Bifur and Gloin running around with furious looks on their blood-stained faces. Dwalin had looked positively murderous when he had unknowingly passed by invisible Bilbo, a mere foot away from him. Dwalin had been muttering something about "simply killing the unreliable bastard," but Bilbo hadn't been foolish enough to follow the warrior to listen to any more of his muttered threats. If Dwalin was talking about him, Bilbo didn't want to know about it. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he had simply run – or done his best to run. It was currently impossible for him to actually move his legs that quickly, too disoriented as he was.

Thorin, Balin, Bifur, Gloin and Dwalin – they, at least, were alive. Bilbo could only hope that his other friends were alive as well.

Although Thorin wasn't really his friend any more, was he. If Thorin was giving commands on his execution, the dwarf had to consider their friendship over. Thorin didn't want to be Bilbo's friend any more, which hurt, dragon sickness or not, as Bilbo still cared for the prince. He cared for Thorin deeply and his heart ached at the thought that Thorin would cast their gradually formed, carefully protected friendship aside like that. Just like that, without even talking with Bilbo first, without letting him explain.

And for what? What was the reason behind the loss of Bilbo's most precious friendship? A stone! A dratted _stone_! A pretty stone, but still just a stone.

A sudden flash of anger, hot and crushing, hit Bilbo, slamming against his shaking form and making his state of mind even more confused and unstable: If he got caught, he would get beheaded because of _a stupid piece of rock_ , because Thorin had chosen the love for a dead stone over his friendship with Bilbo. That hurt more than Bilbo could even begin to describe.

That cursed Arkenstone. Oh, how Bilbo hated it! He _hated_ it! Hated!

Bilbo felt hot tears running down his cheeks and wiped his face angrily.

The thick fur of wargs, the fur all around him, felt coarse and wet, but with his Ring on, Bilbo couldn't tell whether it was blood or mud that was soaking through his clothes – the magic ring could turn him invisible, but it also took away all the lovely colours, turning Bilbo's world temporarily grey and oh so very miserable, so very like he now felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos!


	3. Dwalin: Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Before I even begin to help anyone to find my friend, I want some guarantee that he won't be harmed. How can I be certain that this isn't some plot of Thorin's? The last time I saw Bilbo and him talking, it wasn't in friendly terms at all.'"

_Day One_

When Dain gave Thorin his solemn word to "take care of Bilbo Baggins", Dwalin was right there by Thorin's side, pressing down on the wound on Thorin's thigh with his bare hands, trying in vain to keep all that blood _in_ Thorin. Even though Dwalin heard the short exchange between the two cousins from word to word, he didn't suspect anything to be amiss.

Which was one of the three reasons why he reacted the way he did when Balin eventually managed to pry him away from Thorin's side and out of the royal tent only to inform him in a hushed voice that, due to a misunderstanding, Dain had almost beheaded their hobbit. The second reason why Dwalin, after hearing Balin's words, marched straight to Dain and shoved the unsuspecting lord quite violently down onto the hard ground was the fact that Dain wasn't the only person that Thorin had asked to take care of Bilbo.

The third reason why Dwalin did what he did... well, Thorin certainly wasn't the only one that had grown to care about the hobbit. Bilbo Baggins had many friends and Dwalin considered himself to be one of them.

"I have every right to take his life," Dwalin argued while Balin clung to his axe, refusing to let him strike Dain, the coward who, a misunderstanding or not, had tried to harm someone under Thorin's protection – that in itself was an insult worse than any slander ever could have been. "According to the Guardian Laws," Dwalin insisted, "I – as Thorin's Most Trusted Warrior – am entitled to present Thorin with Dain's head on a plate for the way he-"

" _Do not_ q-quote the laws to me, b-brother," Balin interrupted, his teeth chattering audibly as Dwalin tried to shook him off the axe. "If one of us is f-familiar with the legislation, it's me and we both k-know it. We both also know that now, of all times, is not the t-time for us to c-create any kind of political inconvenience. I am certainly not defending Lord D-Dain's less than u-unpleasant actions but we are now acting on Thorin's behalf. We c-cannot begin his rule b-by _killing his cousin_ , the honoured Lord of the Iron Hills! Think of what you are d-doing, Dwalin! At this point, violence simply is not an o-option."

"Listen to your brother, son of Fundin," wheezed Dain from where he was lying on his stomach, pinned firmly on the ground by Dwalin's conveniently placed foot. "I admit that I made a mis- a _horrible_ mistake, but if you kill me, my followers will turn against Thorin and that would be very inconvenient to everyone, most of all to Thorin."

Under Balin's serious gaze and faced with the truth of Balin and Dain's words, Dwalin had to reluctantly relent and refrain from beheading the unreliable bastard. Noting the change in Dwalin's manner, Balin immediately snatched the axe from his hand and put it behind his back, taking a few cautious, shaky steps backwards, breathing heavily from the exertion.

"When _justice_ becomes an option once more, brother dear," Dwalin said gruffly, removing his foot to release Dain, "be sure to let me know. An insult has been offered, consequences must be faced."

"I will put things right," Dain declared, scrambling up to his feet. "I meant no offense to anyone, least of all to my honoured cousin. And to my defence, I had, in fact, planned on the halfling's execution to be quick."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Dwalin asked in a low, threatening voice, stepping closer to loom over Dain. "Because of you, Ironfoot, Baggins now thinks falsely of my king, of his friend. Of his _friends_ , plural. He thinks that we are after him. He is under the impression that we want to see him harmed."

"Now, now, Master Dwalin," Dain said, smoothing down his clothes with slightly trembling hands. "Once we find the hobbit, everything shall be explained to him. No lasting damage has been done, as you will soon surely see yourself."

"No lasting damage, my arse. Have you ever tried to locate a hiding hobbit, Lord of the Iron Hills? Because I have, in three separate occasions, and I know for a fact that it cannot be done. If Baggins doesn't want to be found, he won't be found."

Dain snorted, shaking his head in a disbelieving manner, while Balin placed himself carefully between the two dwarves.

"I find it difficult to believe that a mere _halfling_ could avoid an entire army of dwarves," Dain said with mild amusement. "But not everyone can be good at tracking, I suppose, so do not feel ashamed of your lack of skill, Master Dwalin. I am certain that you are worthy in... some other area."

"Dwalin is _excellent_ at tracking," said Balin, ignoring the sneer on his brother's face. "If he says that Master Baggins can be difficult to find, then Master Baggins is nearly impossible to find. In any case, I believe that we all agree that the need to locate Bilbo Baggins is one matter that should not be mentioned to Prince Thorin, at least not quite yet. There is enough on his mind as it is, with the young princes so gravely injured... Prince Thorin needs to lay still and heal, not run around as he would do, if he found out about this... situation. We certainly don't want him to try to get up."

On that, Dwalin and Dain agreed, eagerly in Dain's case, reluctantly in Dwalin's.

"If something happens to Baggins because of this, Thorin will never forgive any of us for not telling him."

With that, Dwalin turned away from Balin and Dain, focusing his mind on gathering the rest of the Company so that they could begin to look for their missing hobbit. Balin would, with no doubt, be too focused on politics and rebuilding arrangements to be able to help Bilbo, which meant that Dwalin was to be in charge of Bilbo's search. Dwalin had promised Thorin to take care of the hobbit and he was determined to keep his promise – there was little else he could currently do for Thorin.

"I've had enough of you, Dain Ironfoot," Dwalin was careful to spit over his shoulder, like any honourable warrior would have. "Stay out of my way, if you know what is good for you."

Dain raised his eyebrows.

"Under any other circumstances, Dwalin, younger son of Fundin, I would have your tongue for speaking to me like that.”

They all knew that he would have, too, just as they all knew that it would have costed Dain both of his ears and at least one eye.

* * *

Ori had been mildly wounded, Dwalin knew, as he had been the one to carry the scribe to the healing tents with Dori who hadn't left his little brother's side since, and Oin spent all his time with the wounded. Despite of six members of the Company staying in the healing tents, Dwalin could still see several of his friends gathered close together at the edge of the silent battlefield. Bofur was sitting on a dead orc, holding his unlit pipe between his lips with a faraway look upon his face, while Nori, Gloin and Bombur were standing beside him, apparently arguing whether it was disrespectful to bet money on which one of the Durins would get back to their feet first. Bifur was busy collecting cords from the clothing of the dead orcs, tying the pieces together and winding them into a tight ball, but upon noticing Dwalin, he abandoned the task and hurried to sit next to Bofur on the fallen orc.

It was anything but pleasant to explain to the five battle-weary dwarves what Dain had almost done to their hobbit. As Dwalin told them of the events that had taken place not an hour ago, Bifur and Bofur sprung up to their feet and all five dwarves huddled around Dwalin, bristling with anger, letting out curses in Khuzdul and Westron, signing several more curse words in Iglishmêk, and just generally making their displeasure known.

"He tried to _what_?" cried Gloin even though he had listened to Dwalin's words very closely and thus now well knew what Dain had tried to do. "Ironfoot tried to do _what_ to Bilbo?”

”You call that a 'misunderstanding'?” demanded a seething Bofur from no-one in particular. ”That is no 'misunderstanding'! That's _an attempted murder_! Misunderstanding my _gtsuk-a-lêghar_!”

” _Gtsuk-a-lêghar_ indeed,” agreed Bombur, but Bofur wasn't done yet. ”To think that such a precious life, Bilbo's life, could have been wasted like... like... Simply _unforgivable_! I, for one, will be demanding satisfaction on Bilbo's behalf!”

Dwalin grumbled and folded his arms.

”If anyone will be fighting Ironfoot for this,” he grumbled, ”it will be me. I reserve the right to retaliate – if Thorin is not yet able to do it himself, that is.”

Nori muttered his agreement.

"If Dain is going around executing defenceless, injured, confused beings without even bothering to _have the execution orders in writing_ ,” he said in a low voice, ” we might as well make _Dain_ defenceless and follow his cowardly example by-"

"Please don't finish that sentence, Nori," Bombur said, rubbing his eyes. Nori spit on the ground, a discontent look grazing his worn features. "We are all very angry over what has happened, but now is not the time to seek revenge, nor justice. The line of Durin is gravely injured, while their kingdom is waiting to be rebuild. An army of dwarves has to be fed... Oh, there is so much to be done, so many things to be arranged. We cannot cause any trouble, not right now! All we can now do, lads, is to focus all our attention on finding Bilbo before anything even more awful happens to him."

"Easier said than done," snorted Nori, beginning to pace around the five other dwarves. "Eru, if Bilbo doesn't want to be found, he cannot be found. Have we not learnt that by now? We cannot find him! We will not find him."

"In any case,” said Bofur, leveling Dwalin with a suspicious, narrow-eyed look, ”before I even begin to help anyone to find my friend, I want some guarantee that he won't be harmed. How can I be certain that this isn't some plot of Thorin's? The last time I saw Bilbo and him talking, it wasn't in friendly terms at all, to put it mildly."

There were murmurs and quiet grunts of speculation. Dwalin resisted the urge to defend Thorin's honour and gritted his teeth instead.

"I swear by my beard," he declared, which was an oath enough to make the other dwarves fall silent and a pacing Nori to come to a halt. "I swear by my beard and by Thorin's beard that Thorin doesn't want any harm to come to Bilbo. The dragon sickness left him the moment he heard of the wounds of his sister-sons, and since then, he has been quite regretful of his actions."

The six dwarves studied each other for a long while, all of them trying to assess where the other five stood with the situation. Eventually Bifur began to sign that he, at least, believed that Dwalin was speaking the truth. This prompted Gloin and Bombur to mutter their agreement as well and even Bofur gave a hesitant nod.

"Yes, fine," Nori was the last one to say. "I believe you. But that doesn't remove our original problem: when Bilbo doesn't want to be found, he cannot be found.”

"Perhaps he can..." mused Bofur and five sharp gazes were immediately focused on him. "Come on, lads, we're friends with him now! Looking for him now won't be like it was when we looked for him the last time, or the two times before that. By now, we _know_ him. Bilbo might not exactly want to be found by us, but we can use our knowledge of him to find him. We now know that he's a clever fellow. We know how he thinks. If we take all that we know about him into consideration, we just might be able to find him."

"Aye!" Gloin agreed, brightening up a bit. "We shall think like Bilbo Baggins and thus we shall find him!"

"He could be hiding anywhere," Nori pointed out in his characteristically dry manner. "Or have you forgotten all about his magic ring already? He could be standing literally right next to us and we wouldn't notice him.”

All six dwarves looked around. Dwalin reached out with his hand and made a few grasping motions, just in case Bilbo might have been close enough to be touched. Unsurprisingly, he didn't catch Bilbo like this. Had the hobbit even been there, he hadn't been standing by Dwalin, at least.

”We shouldn't be wasting our time in this manner," Dwalin said impatiently, letting his arm fall to his side, clenching his fists with barely-contained frustration. ”We should be searching for Baggins already!”

Bombur nodded, all of his chins giving a jolt due to the sudden movement.

”Out of the six of us, you are closest with Bilbo,” he said, addressing his words to Bofur. ”Tell us, how, exactly, are we supposed to think like him?”

"That's easy enough," mused Bofur. ”We'll just imagine we're hobbits."

Without further ado, he knelt down onto the blackened ground to make himself shorter. After exchanging quick looks, the other dwarves all followed Bofur's example and crouched down as one, tilting their heads a bit as they studied their surroundings. None of them questioned Bofur's advice, as the toymaker was closest with Bilbo and thus knew more about hobbits than any of the other five did.

Still, they all knew Bilbo well enough to understand that if they wanted to find the hobbit, more than a little stealth and intelligence was needed. Bilbo was clever, very smart, and they had to be even more so, if they wanted to locate their missing friend. It was as good of a tactic as any to begin the search by trying to think like a hobbit – it was better, at least, than just running around without any kind of a plan, hoping to collide with an invisible halfling just by chance.

Dwalin frowned in concentration. He touched his bald head, trying to imagine what it would feel like if the bareness was covered with curly, soft-looking locks of hair, if there was smoothness on his chin instead of the familiar, long beard. He focused his mind on wriggling his toes in his boots to get a better understanding on what it was like to be a hobbit with wriggling toes. He even went as far as to imagine that he had a lace handkerchief in his pocket, but then a violent shiver ran down his back and he had to abandon that particular line of thought, imagining, instead, that he liked gardening, even though he didn't actually know any other flower but grass by name.

"Now," Bofur continued once they all had had a moment to think of themselves as hobbits, "if you were a hobbit hunted down by dwarves, where would you hide? Where would you go if you were Bilbo?"

Dwalin scowled, as he looked around the battlefield from his crouched position.

"To the elves," he said reluctantly. "Baggins is too naive and trusting for his own good. He might seek for Thranduil's aid in a situation such as this."

All six dwarves winced at the truth in Dwalin's words.

"Those pretentious tree-shaggers!" Gloin growled, sneering. "If Bilbo is going to elves, a fate worse than an execution is waiting for him. Unlike him, we certainly know what elves are capable of – we must save our hobbit!"

"I could sneak into the elven camp," Nori suggested bravely, chewing his nails in a contemplative manner. "Although I don't actually think that Bilbo has managed to get that far. According to Balin, Bilbo has a head injury and you don't walk far with those. Bilbo would have fallen unconscious long before reaching the elves and I believe him to be clever enough not to try to risk something like that. He must be somewhere reasonably close. He's probably resting and trying to treat his wounds somewhere nearby, wearing that ring of his."

"This is all Dain's fault," Bofur said with frustration, making an angry gesture with his pipe. "If something happens to Bilbo because of him..."

"-then I shall kill Ironfoot," Dwalin finished. "No matter how politically inconvenient."

"None of us will let this slide," Nori agreed.

"Enough of this useless blabbering," Gloin said, rising to his feet. "The longer we talk, the further away Bilbo can get. We need to find him as soon as possible. His head injury might be serious and it's certainly not getting any better with him running around."

"Someone should guard the water barrels," Bombur said with a frown, as Gloin and Dwalin prized him up to his feet. "At some point, Bilbo will need to get some water. If we keep a subtle eye out for the barrels and suddenly notice one of them unplugging for seemingly no reason at all, we might be able to find him, even if he is invisible. Another place Bilbo might want to visit is Fili and Kili's tent, so someone should observe the tent flaps as well. It's not currently that windy, so if the flaps move without anyone touching them, it's probably safe to assume that it's Bilbo causing them to move."

"Bilbo is smarter than that," Bofur said with conviction. "If we want to find him, we will need to look into places in which no-one would ever come to think he would be hiding."

"And what could those places be?" Dwalin inquired, although his eyes had narrowed and he was already observing one of the manure-covered disposal pits that had been dug in the ground in order to have a place for all the waste an army of dwarves would produce. Could Bilbo be hiding in one of the disposal pits? No-one would think to look for him in there, at least.

"Generally, I mean places in which a scared hobbit would never go," Bofur explained. "I don't know what, exactly, those places could be, but I think that that's where Bilbo would be a situation like this. He would never think anyone would choose to hide in an uncomfortable or a scary place, so that's where he would go, thinking that no-one would come looking for him in there either."

"So we just need to think about places that Bilbo wouldn't want to go in in a situation like this?" Nori summed up with a curt nod. "Sounds easy enough. Thorin's tent, for one, must be a scary place for Bilbo at the moment. Besides, Gandalf is in there, so it's all the more reason for Bilbo to try to enter."

"Yes, definitely," Bofur agreed. "Someone needs to keep an eye for Thorin's tent, as well as Fili and Kili's tent and the water barrels. Any other places Bilbo might hide?"

Bifur had, it seemed, come to think of many places where Bilbo could be, but he had no patience to share his thoughts with the others and so he simply stood up and walked away, apparently determined to begin the search on his own.

Dwalin wriggled his toes and stroked his bald head, imagining it was covered with soft locks.

"Baggins might be hiding among the deceased," he eventually mused, doing his best to think like Bilbo. "If that is the case, he would most likely be laying somewhere among orcs or wargs, as that is where no-one would be looking for their deceased kin."

"The water barrels, Fili and Kili's tent, Thorin's tent and the battle field, especially the areas with orcs and wargs," Bofur listed. "We'll start with those. Nori, you can keep an eye for the water barrels and Fili and Kili's tent. Dwalin, you should go to Thorin's tent. The rest of us can search the battlefield. Try to look friendly and as approachable as possible, so that if Bilbo happens to see you, he might be encouraged enough to say something to you."

"We shall do our best," they all said, and thus began the search for the hiding hobbit.

Dwalin was swift with his steps when he walked back towards Thorin's tent. The whole situation and his own helplessness frustrated him to no end. He could do nothing for Fili and Kili and all he could do for Thorin was to try to find the hobbit that wasn't supposed to be missing in the first place.

If only Dwalin could have released some of his frustration by attacking Dain, by _simply killing that unreliable bastard_! Shouldn't have been too hard, considering the way the guilty lord had sent most of his guards to look for Bilbo. Dwalin didn't really care how desperately Dain was trying to mend the situation, as nothing could change his opinion of the Lord of the Iron Hills. What a coward, trying to behead defenceless hobbits like that!

And what a fool, trying to behead their fierce little hobbit.

Dwalin never realized he had just brushed by their hiding, fierce little hobbit, terrifying the poor thing into almost passing out with his vengeful mutterings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, for the kudos and for the comments!


	4. Thorin: Days Three and Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”'Have you seen Bilbo?' he asked, trying - and failing - to sound nonchalant."

_Day Three_

”For Durin's sake,” muttered Oin, trying to prize the spoon out of Thorin's fist. ”Must you be this stubborn? Just let go off the spoon already and allow me to feed you.”

”You are _not_ feeding me,” was Thorin's immediate, indignant answer. ”I can eat on my own. I will require only a little bit of assistance.”

It had been two days since the battle for Erebor and Thorin – to his mortification – was still far too weak to hold a spoon on his own. Or rather, he could _hold_ the spoon just fine and only had trouble when it came to lifting the blasted thing and bringing it to his mouth. Even in this sitting position, propped up against the bedpost with the help of several pillows, he kept poking himself in the nose and chin with the spoon and had only allowed Oin to assist him after spoonful after spoonful of hot gruel had accidentally dropped onto his bare, bandaged chest.

It was now evening and the late hour had brought frost with it. Even though it had to be much warmer inside the tent than outside of it, Oin was still wearing mittens and Thorin himself was shivering under all his woolly blankets. In the addition to Thorin's makeshift bed, the bedside table and a few chairs, there was a stove in the tent. Next to the stove, someone had brought a pile of firewood - Oin had given Thorin his solemn word that there was a stove in every healing tent and that was the only reason why Thorin allowed the stove to remain in his tent and hadn't yet sent it to someone who needed it more than he did.

This was the first time after the battle that Thorin was fully conscious, fully in his mind, properly present, and so he was naturally also quite weary and exhausted. He didn't remember much about that first day after the battle, apart from the pain and the crushing worry he had felt for his nephews. He remembered that various healers had swarmed around him and that only the ever loyal Dwalin had been a constant present by his side. Balin - busy as ever - had been running into and out of the tent, looking more and more tired and worried after each of his short visits. Thorin could hazily recall that Dain, as well, had been there by his bedside at some point, for he had summoned the dwarf and asked him to look after Bilbo.

Bilbo.

Thorin forced himself to recall how full of terror Bilbo's eyes had been in that horrible moment when Thorin - in the clutches of the dragon sickness - had hold him by the throat threatening to throw him off the wall. Thorin let those terror-filled eyes to haunt him, to remind him of the monster he had only just been. He deserved to be haunted, he wasn't allowed to forget anything he had done.

Thorin felt shame for what he had done and caused in the course of the four days before the battle. He wasn't making any excuses for his actions, bearing all the guilt and shame just as he well deserved to. Had someone tried to defend him, however, they might have pointed out that he hadn't been himself when doing his dishonourable deeds, that he had then been under the Curse of His Line. The dragon sickness had left him the moment he had heard of his sister-sons, of Fili and Kili's grave injuries, but by then the damage had already been done. Had he not succumbed to the dragon sickness, many a death might have been prevented - there was now dwarven blood on his hands and he would never forgive himself for that.

And Fili and Kili, then... When Balin had visited Thorin shortly before Oin's arrival, he had avoided talking about them, a fact that greatly worried Thorin. Balin had only told him that Fili and Kili were lying unconscious in a nearby tent, barely hanging to this life. Characteristically to him, the old dwarf had naturally phrased these news in a more gentle manner, but there was not enough gentleness in this world to make Fili and Kili's situation any less painful, any less heartrending to Thorin. Though Thorin longed to go to see his boys, he had to admit to himself - to his great frustration - that he was still far too weak to get up from the bed.

Even though he had no right to do so, Thorin still wished that Bilbo would have been there with him. Bilbo would have known what to do and say, he would have kept Thorin updated on Fili and Kili's condition. Bilbo would have assisted him with eating without calling it ”feeding”. The fact that the hobbit hadn't yet been there in the tent to see him weighed on Thorin's mind more than he cared to admit: how scared of him Bilbo had to be if he hadn't even come to see him on his (potential) deathbed! Clearly Thorin in his madness had greatly affected their friendship and not at all in a good way. Did Bilbo even wish for their friendship to continue, or did he consider it over? Thorin wished - rather selfishly, admittedly - that Bilbo would have given him at least the change to apologize, to try and make amends.

”You are certainly not the only warrior I will be feeding today,” Oin was grumbling, ”for there are currently many wounded dwarves under my care. The longer I will fight with you over the control of this spoon, the longer it will take for them to get fed – or 'assisted', as the act is apparently called by those who are _too stubborn to let go off their pride – or their spoon – for even just a minute_. And will you just stop moving already, you're getting gruel everywhere! If you don't calm down, Thorin, I will have to put a bib on you!”

”You will be doing no such thing,” declared Thorin immediately, appalled, though he did also halt his restless shifting. ”I'd rather starve.”

”No-one starves under my care,” Oin huffed, sounding offended. ”But since both you and the gruel obviously need some time to cool down, I will leave you be for the time being and come by later when you are ready to behave in a more reasonable manner. I will do all I can to help you heal, but I will not be wasting my valuable time by fighting over a spoon.”

Oin let go off the spoon, allowing Thorin to grasp the item fully to himself, and put the wooden bowl onto the bedside table. Putting a few logs into the stove, he then left the tent, muttering about stubborn kings under his breath as he went.

Once the healer was gone, Thorin unclenched his fist and looked down at the spoon. He turned it in his hand, studied its iron surface, the delicate carvings on the shaft. It looked like any ordinary spoon, but for Thorin it was so much more than that. For him, it was a symbol for his self-determination, for his capability to look after himself: he had lost his mind but a few days earlier, if he would lose control over his body too – if he couldn't even _eat_ by himself, on his own – what was there left of him? If he wasn't allowed at least the pretence of being in control of his own well-being, of his body, of his _mind_ , he could well sink into darkness so deep that he would eventually have to save himself from becoming mad again by thrusting a knife through his own throat. It certainly hadn't been his pride that had made him fight for a spoon, but that wasn't something he would tell Oin, or anyone, for that matter. He would find a way to deal with his troubled state by himself. He had already caused enough trouble to the others without burdening them with this too.

Thorin's stomach let out a loud rumble. Steadying himself, he took a proper hold of the spoon and reached for the gruel bowl on the nightstand. It took him quite a lot of effort to get the bowl onto the bed and to balance it in his lap, but eventually he managed to do all that. Gasping for breath, for the movement had strained him more than he had anticipated, he then made an attempt to spoon up the gruel. The fact that he was trying eat by himself _in earnest_ made it even more pitiful that he failed to do so. Try as he might, he got more gruel on his beard and chest than in his mouth.

A few minutes later when Dwalin entered the tent, Thorin was still trying - in vain - to spoon up the gruel.

”You seem to have some trouble with your aim,” said Dwalin as a way of greeting after dragging a chair by Thorin's bed and taking his seat on it. ”Need some assistance?”

”Yes,” admitted Thorin, grateful for the way Dwalin had called it ”assisting”. ”If you don't mind.”

Without any further discussions, Dwalin began to assist Thorin with the eating, doing a much better job with it than Oin had, regardless of the fact that Oin was the one who was supposed to be the expert when it came to communicating with sick and injured people. Afterwards, Dwalin got up to add some firewood in the stove, before he helped Thorin to wash the gruel off his face and chest. While Thorin pulled the covers up to his chin, shivering, Dwalin took his seat on the chair again. 

"Damn it's cold," he cursed, blowing on his fingers. "I sure pity everyone who's been put on guarding duty tonight."

They talked about this and that for a while. Dwalin was obviously trying to keep their topics of conversations easy and as nondistressing as possible, but Thorin was determined to talk about some more pressing issues as well, things - or rather, _a person_ \- that were weighing on his mind.

”Have you seen Bilbo?” he asked, trying - and failing - to sound nonchalant.

Hadn't Thorin known Dwalin as well as he did, he might have missed the slight wince Dwalin gave when hearing his question, but as it happened, the two of them did know each other quite well and so Thorin _did_ notice the wince. It made his heart sink, for it had to mean that Dwalin, too, had noticed the way Bilbo seemed to be avoiding Thorin.

”Not actually, I haven't,” came Dwalin's eventual answer. ”But then again, whenever I haven't been here by your bedside waiting for you to wake up, I've been busy trying to locate one or two missing persons, so I've been pretty occupied.”

The warrior was pretending that he wasn't evading Thorin's gaze. He was inspecting his nails and only gave Thorin a subtle sideways glance. Thorin swallowed hard, staring ahead. If even the mention of the hobbit made Dwalin actually _wince_ and behave in this manner, the situation had to be far worse than he had initially assumed.

"Surely Bilbo hasn't yet left?" he asked cautiously, wary of the answer. "Surely he wouldn't leave without coming to say his farewells?"

Or perhaps he would. Bilbo owed them nothing after all. If anything, it was Thorin who owed Bilbo, and oh how much he owed him.

"It's snowing," grumbled Dwalin, giving up inspecting his nails in order to cross his arms. "In this weather the hobbit wouldn't get far even if he tried to leave. Besides, he did indeed come to see you - though not to say his farewells - but you were still unconscious at that point."

"He did?" Thorin asked, surprised.

Dwalin's curt nod lifted some of the burdens off Thorin's shoulders and Thorin felt as relieved as he could under the circumstances. Bilbo had visited him. That was something, at least.

Dwalin was still avoiding his gaze, Thorin noted, bemused.

"Bilbo is being taken care of, isn't he?" he needed the confirmation.

"He's certainly not making it easy for us to do so," muttered Dwalin. "Our hobbit has been very busy running around."

Thorin let out a sigh - that did sound like Bilbo. Of course the kind-hearted hobbit had been busy helping healers to care for the wounded and doing all those things that needed to be done after any a battle, but one could only hope that he had remembered to look after himself too.

"Make sure that Bilbo is not tasking himself too hard," said Thorin. "And tell Bombur to see to it that he is being given enough food. Hobbits require more nourishment than we do, after all."

Dwalin didn't answer, but Thorin didn't pay that too much mind, tired as he was.

During those three days that Thorin had spent in the tent, healing, a pile of reports had materialized on his bedside table as if on its own accord. To take his mind off Bilbo and to do his duties, Thorin now reached out for the pile, ignoring the strain the movement caused to his body – the kingdom wouldn't rebuild herself by herself, she needed her king.

”Balin is taking care of all that,” protested Dwalin as Thorin began to spread out the parchments over his sheets on his lap. ”Sitting here by your bed, I've grown rather accustomed to hear you snore, so why don't you snooze a bit more, eh? Music to my ears and all that shit.”

”I need to be aware of what is going on in my kingdom. Being injured is no excuse to fail to do one's duties.”

”Duties _my arse_ ,” grunted Dwalin, leaning back in his chair and lifting his feet on Thorin's bed, crumpling up some of the parchment as he did so. ”You fought a dragon last week, surely that should cover all your duties for at least a month!”

Thorin gave his friend an incredulous look – causing Dwalin to let out an exasperated sigh and to roll his eyes – before he began to study the parchments by the candlelight. The reports contained, among other things, information about body counts, remaining food supplies and the names of the dwarves that were preparing to spent the winter in Erebor, but they had been written in such poor, incoherent manner that Thorin had hard time trying to make any sense to the words.

”Balin must tell the scribes to use some other ink,” he grumbled, annoyed, peering at the mess of letters in front of him before handing the parchment over to Dwalin. ”Just look at this – the ink is making the letters _dance_. It's nearly impossible to try to make any sense to the words when the letters keep on moving with such inconsistency.”

”The letters are just fine,” claimed Dwalin, his gaze flickering from the report to Thorin, an unreadable look forming on his face. ”There's nothing wrong with the writing, Thorin. Why don't you just let those reports be and focus on getting better. It seems like you're still too muddled to grasp any written word that has more than one syllable on it.”

”Surely you cannot fault me for _that_ ,” huffed Thorin, gesturing towards the dancing letters. ”I assure you that it is _not_ of _my_ doing that the letters won't stand still. Surely you believe that I'm not the one causing this? The ink must be of elven make, it's probably enchanted.”

”Enchanted,” snorted Dwalin. ”Yes, of course. _Enchanted_. It couldn't possibly be that the letters seem to be 'dancing' due to all those potions that Oin has made you drink.”

”I cannot see how that could be," said Thorin. "It is not like the scribes have been using my potions as ink, is it.”

It took a long while for Thorin to try to convince Dwalin that it wasn't because of him that the letters wouldn't stand still and even then the warrior looked rather doubtful. Eventually Thorin just gave up, telling Dwalin to go _grûck_ himself for being so frustrating and annoying, to which Dwalin answered – in an emphasizingly patient manner – that he actually already had _grûcked_ twice that day.

”Besides,” Dwalin added, ”out of the two of us, Thorin, it's not me that is being frustrating and annoying. You're being terribly edgy and short-tempered with me. I've done nothing to deserve to be told to go _grûck_ myself.”

After a few minutes of mutual glaring, Thorin looked away and rubbed his face, sighing.

”I suppose not,” he admitted softly.

Both of them were satisfied with that apology, and Dwalin proceeded to gather all the parchments from Thorin's lap and to shove them under the bed well out of Thorin's reach. Thorin let him do so because it would have been rather useless to try to make any sense to the words, dancing as the letters still were.

With some help from Dwalin, Thorin managed to lay down on his back. He found his new position more durable and sighed in relief.

Thorin and Dwalin enjoyed the comfortable, companionable silence for long enough for the candle to burn out. Neither commented on the sudden darkness that filled the tent, enjoying the sound of – relative – silence instead. Now that they weren't talking, Thorin could hear noises coming from outside. A cart was going pass by the tent and warriors were singing somewhere nearby, their song joyful but not yet too boisterous, probably for the sake of their wounded and fallen comrades. There were also the familiar sounds of chain mails clinking as some of the guards walked by the tent. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.

Dwalin's clothes rustled as the warrior shifted on his chair.

With uncharacteristical gentleness, Dwalin then broke the silence and proceeded to tell Thorin of the way Gandalf had been by in the day of the battle, of the way Gandalf had managed to stabilize not only his condition but both Fili and Kili's as well.

”But that's all he would do,” Dwalin added a bit grudgingly. ”He claimed that there were too many wounded for him to focus on healing any one individual.”

”But he did stabilize Fili and Kili?” Thorin clung to this possibility, clutching at straws.

”Aye, that he did,” Dwalin confirmed, causing relief to flood in Thorin's veins. ”Put his hand on their eyes and did some magic, I was told, the same as he did with you. They haven't yet woken up, but neither are they dying, so as far as they are concerned things are looking far less dire than one might initially assume.”

”Thank Mahal,” Thorin managed to croak. ”That's... good.”

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. He was choking back tears and it took him many long minutes to take control of his emotions. It appeared that his weak state had left him emotionally even more fragile than he had initially assumed.

* * *

_Day Four_

When Thorin opened his eyes, it was morning and Dwalin was no longer there in the tent with him. In Dwalin's stead, Dori was now sitting on the chair by his bed. Dori was humming to himself and looking absent-mindedly around the royal tent, a deep frown on his forehead, a faraway look in his eyes.

When Thorin shifted a bit, letting out a grunt as the movement caused some pain in his thigh, Dori had such a start that he fell off his chair, yelping.

” _Bootless elves_ ,” he then cursed, rubbing his bottom as he climbed back onto the chair - when it came to Dori, it never got cruder than that. ”It's certainly nice to see you awake, Your Highness, though you did give me a bit of a start there.”

The dwarf let out a high-pitched chuckle and it wasn't until now that Thorin noticed how nervous Dori's manner was. He was fingering the cuffs of his sleeves and kept shifting on his place, his gaze flickering towards the entrance of the tent as if he was planning for an escape. Never before had the oldest of the Ri brothers been nervous about being in Thorin's presence and with a sinking feeling Thorin realized that Dori, too, was now wary of him due to the dragon's curse.

”The madness has left me,” he told Dori quietly, too ashamed to look his friend in the eye. ”I am no longer cursed with the dragon sickness. I am myself again.”

”That's nice to hear,” mused Dori, sounding earnest and sincere. ”Balin told me as much yesterday and it delights me to have confirmation directly from you.”

Thorin turned his head to the side to look at Dori. Although there was a kind smile on Dori's face, his manner still remained nervous and he was avoiding Thorin's gaze. Thorin swallowed hard, feeling horrible. First Bilbo and now this: how many friendships had he destroyed in his madness?

”Where's Dwalin?” he managed to ask without really meaning to say anything.

Hearing Thorin's question, there was an odd twitch in Dori's eye.

”That,” Dori said, his voice almost squeaky in its sudden, shaky shrill, ”is a good question! A great question, actually. 'Where is Dwalin', indeed. _Where_ is Dwalin. Where _is_ Dwalin. Where is _Dwalin_. Well, I'll tell you where Dwalin is, because it's not like I'm not supposed to tell you where he has gone to, or what he's doing, or anything of the like.”

Yet another nervous chuckle, and then Dori began to blabber in earnest, while the twitching of his eye intensified.

”Because Dwalin's whereabouts are certainly not a _secret_. Why would they be! It's not like he's doing something that we don't want you to know about, because why would we – or he – be trying to keep anything from you – you have a right to know things as our king – and even if we _were_ currently keeping _some_ information from you _for your own good_ and just for the time being, that wouldn't mean that you needed to worry about any of it, because there isn't really anything to worry about because we're dealing with it. So don't you worry about anything, we're dealing with everything. _Not that there's anything we need to deal with!_ No, no, no, everything is just fine.”

Looking flushed, Dori chuckled again, tapping his fingers against his thigh, glancing nervously at the tent's entrance.

Thorin understood well why the dwarf was nervous to be anywhere near him, but he was far too worn to be dealing with it right now. Dwalin had probably made some kind of an arrangement with the Company, an arrangement that would guarantee that there would constantly be someone by Thorin's side happened he to wake up, and it was just Dori's poor luck that Thorin had woken up on his watch.

”Did Dwalin go to rest?” he now asked. ”When will he be back, do you know?”

”Rest, yes!” cried Dori, the look in his eyes a bit wild, as he pointed a finger at Thorin. ”That's exactly what Dwalin is doing – he's _resting_! That makes sense, because he has barely left your side for the past three days. So yes, Dwalin is _resting_ and definitely not doing anything else. And he might be resting for a while yet, as he probably wants to eat something too. So resting and eating, that's what Dwalin is doing. And he won't be back for a while.”

Thorin sighed and shifted his gaze away from the insistent twitch in Dori's eye.


	5. Bilbo: Days Two and Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I think I've just managed to locate our burglar.'”

_Day Two_

Bilbo woke up with a start, shivering, huddled close to the carcasses for the warmth their fur provided. His dreams had been full of death, blood and evil and it was a relief to wake up, even if he was currently still lying on a pile of slayed wargs. With the anguish of the nightmares lingering in his mind, he sat up and looked around, blinking sleep from his eyes. He had slept through the night, it seemed, as the sun was now at its peak while it had barely began to set when he had first reached the wargs.

While he had slept, dwarves, elves and men had been busy working, carrying their fallen ones away from the silent battlefield, collecting weapons, piling up orcs and wargs, and so Bilbo's surroundings now looked somewhat different compared to the way they had been when he had last laid his eyes upon them. There were no fallen elves anywhere in sight and most of the fallen dwarves were gone too. In this particular area only a few men had been killed and they, as well, had been carried away at some point during the night, along with all the weapons. The pile of wargs was now larger, practically a small hill, but no-one had yet set it on fire, much to Bilbo's relief.

To his further relief, Bilbo was quick to note that the pain in his head had dulled and was nowhere near as sharp as it had been the evening before. Some of the pain in his temple still remained, but the freeze in the air was soothing the mild ache like a cold bandage. Touching his face, Bilbo could feel lumps of dried blood, but this didn't upset the gentlehobbit nearly as much as it once would have; every cloud had a silver lining – at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.

In the distance, Bilbo could see trails of smoke rising from the camps of men and elves, but their tents were too far away to make out as anything but a row of obscure spots. The camp of dwarves, on the other hand, was so close to him that he could hear noises coming from there and even smell the scent of dwarves and the food that was being prepared (though it was difficult to tell whether he would have smelt anything apart from the reeking wargs hadn't he been wearing the Ring – the Ring had a peculiar ability to improve his hearing and sense of smell, even if it also did steal the colours and made everything grey and shadowy).

With a sinking feeling Bilbo realized that he would have to approach the dwarven camp sooner or later. He hadn't had a drop of water since the beginning of the battle and so he was, naturally, terribly thirsty. Now that his nausea had passed, hunger was also gnawing at him, and while he knew that the elves would have most likely given him something to eat and drink, both the camp of men and the camp of elves were far too far for him to reach on foot in such cold temperatures.

Sniffling, Bilbo pushed himself up to his feet and wrapped the coat tighter around his shivering form. Standing on the wargs, hugging himself, he then gazed at the dwarven camp where the more or less bulky and hairy forms of hundreds of dwarves could be seen swarming around around the tents while doing their chores. Looking at the lively camp, Bilbo couldn't help but feel that it was actually _he_ who had been betrayed: What he had done, he had done in friendship. It was due to him and his actions that many of those dwarves even were alive, wasn't it, and he certainly didn't deserve to be treated like a traitor, he certainly didn't deserve to get executed for protecting his friends!

Bilbo recalled the way Dain had tried to execute him _by order of Thorin_ the evening before. He recalled the black axe and the feel of wooden block against his cheek. He recalled managing to escape, running away from Dain and Balin, seeing Dwalin and Gloin and Bifur, eventually ending up on a pile of wargs... Recalling all this, tears streamed down his face and he allowed himself to cry, for he was just one scared hobbit, abandoned by his friends, all alone and far, far away from his rolling green hills.

There were still dwarves looking for him. He could see many an armed warrior scouting around the battlefield. Bifur, Dwalin and Gloin he could no longer see, but Bofur and Bombur were there as was Dori, along with several dwarves Bilbo had never been introduced to. They were all walking very carefully, feeling around with their feet and long walking sticks as if looking for someone invisible that just might be laying right there on the ground. Bilbo scoffed at the dwarves, quelling down the bitterness and sadness that the sight of his friends searching for him created in him.

Naturally he was relieved to see that more of his friends had survived the battle. He could breathe a bit easier seeing Bofur, Bombur and Dori moving about, but the sight of them looking for him also broke his heart. Until now, he had cherished the hope that Bofur, at least, wasn't after him, that Bofur would still consider him a friend. Unfortunately it appeared that he had been wrong, as Bofur _was_ looking for him, Bofur _was_ after him – he wouldn't have believed it hadn't he seen it with his own eyes. Gold Lust had to be affecting Bofur's mind, otherwise the jovial dwarf would never have aided anyone in executing Bilbo, that Bilbo firmly believed.

The wind was rising and Bilbo shivered in his thin clothes. His coat had been torn during the battle and there were dark spots on it, but due to wearing the Ring, Bilbo couldn't tell whether it was blood or some other grime that had smeared the once fine fabric. His trousers were just as worn-looking as the coat, but the precious mithril shirt under his vest appeared to be clean and shining and almost mocking in its perfection. The shirt had been a gift from Thorin – ”a small token of friendship, loyalty and appreciation,” Thorin had proudly called it – and to see it now in its impeccable condition was like a blow to the gut – that a mere token had survived while their friendship had not...

Trying to gather himself, Bilbo dried his tears and patted his pockets, feeling for a handkerchief. Once he had managed to locate the said item, he drew it from his front pocket and blew his nose. The act felt familiar and soothing, even though he might have done it in a more noisy manner than was decent of any a gentlehobbit.

The noise of his blowing his nose drew the attention of one of the scouting dwarves, Bilbo noted to his alarm, and a young warrior with a short, fair beard came to stand at the foot of the warg hill. He pointed a finger up in Bilbo's direction and shouted something in Khuzdul, motioning for the other dwarves to come closer. While the other dwarves quickly gathered around the young lad, drawing their various weapons, Bilbo was frozen to the spot. Barely daring to breathe, he watched as frowns formed on Bofur and Bombur's familiar faces. He noted that both of them clenched a dagger, as their gazes swept around the small hill of wargs.

Bilbo swallowed hard and stuffed the handkerchief quickly back into his pocket. Surely they wouldn't find him now? Surely they wouldn't? He would not let them!

With his heart pounding in his chest, Bilbo scrambled on the other side of the warg hill and climbed down the slope in as quick and unnoticed a manner as he could. As soon as he reached the ground, he bolted and began to run towards the camp of dwarves, desperate to escape – and hopeful that he would find water, food, warmth – and another hiding place – in the camp.

Even though Bofur, Bombur, Dori and the other warriors apparently hadn't noticed his escape, for they hadn't come after him, Bilbo didn't stop running until he had almost reached the tents of dwarves. Coming to an eventual halt near the edge of the camp, he leant forward, panting and supporting himself with his hands on his knees. He was desperate for water, or for anything that would take his thirst away.

In his current position, his eyes fell on the magic band on his finger as if on their own accord. Breathing heavily from the exertion, he simply looked at the Ring for a while, studying it half-heartedly to give himself something – anything – to think about, something other than his thirst and the friends that were currently _hunting_ him. It was a nice ring and no-one could deny its occasional usefulness, but for reasons he couldn't quite explain (or even come up with in the first place, truth to be told), Bilbo felt uncomfortable wearing it for any lengthier period of time. Now that he had been wearing the Ring throughout the night and well into the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that he should take it off _immediately_ , right away, as fast as he could. The Ring made him feel... anxious... almost like he was being... stretched.

Bilbo would have taken the Ring off too hadn't he been hunted down by dwarves. There were still many dwarves looking for him, searching for him to take him to his executioners, and Bilbo was determined to avoid any fate that included execution axes and orders to be killed. If he took the Ring off now and became visible again, goodness only knew who might notice him, who might find him! Being visible was currently not an option, at least not a smart one.

It wasn't until now that Bilbo came to think of Gandalf. The thought of Gandalf struck him without warning, unexpectedly. There had been so many things in his mind that the wizard had somehow managed to evade his thoughts, but now that Gandalf had indeed crossed his mind, Bilbo's heart beat a bit faster: If anyone could – _would_ – help him, it was Gandalf! Gandalf certainly wouldn't approve of his hobbit being executed and he would see Bilbo safely back home to the Shire. If Bilbo stayed close to Gandalf, no-one would dare try to harm him. If only Bilbo found Gandalf, he would be safe! Bilbo hastened to scold himself for not thinking about his wizard friend earlier.

With this new-found, Maiar-shaped hope, Bilbo decided to look for Gandalf to ask him for help.

Reluctantly but with determination borne out of desperation, Bilbo guided his steps towards the dwarven camp, as he suspected that Gandalf would be in one of the royal tents discussing pressing matters with Thorin. When he entered the camp, none of the guards even glanced at his direction, regardless of the way he walked right pass by them, almost close enough for them to touch. The lack of any acknowledgements didn't surprise Bilbo, as he wasn't only invisible but silent as well, as silent as only a hobbit could be. No dwarf could hear him if he didn't want to be heard, especially not during the day when the noises of hundreds of dwarves were covering those made by him.

Heading towards the centre of the camp where he knew the royal tents would be situated, Bilbo weaved his way through the crowd, managing not to collide with anyone, even though he did accidentally brush several dwarves that appeared unexpectedly on his path from behind tents and other obstacles. Apart from a few confused looks that were sent in his general direction, no-one acknowledged these quick encounters which allowed Bilbo to breathe more easily, even though being among dwarves still did make him tense and jumpy.

Wondering where Gandalf had been when Dain had tried to behead him, Bilbo came to the eventual conclusion that Gandalf's presence had most likely been wanted in more than one healing tent right after the battle. It was likely that Gandalf hadn't even been aware of the fact that an execution had been taking place – had Gandalf known, he would have stopped it, of that Bilbo was certain!

Perhaps Gandalf had been in the camp of men or elves when Thorin had given his orders to get Bilbo beheaded? Perhaps it was terribly presumptuous of Bilbo to assume that Gandalf had yet even been in the camp of dwarves, as there were wounded in other camps as well. Perhaps Gandalf was still so busy trying to save lives that he hadn't been able to think of his missing hobbit, let alone to look for him. Perhaps Gandalf had no idea what had become of Bilbo. If Gandalf couldn't be found in the camp of dwarves – if Gandalf was in the camp of elves or men, instead – things would become quite a lot more complicated for Bilbo.

Bilbo's musings – and he himself, too – came to a halt when he reached the clearing in the middle of the dwarven camp. The three royal tents were on the other side of the clearing, directly opposite of him, their decorative entrance flaps carefully closed, armed warriors standing at guard in front of them. The only notable difference between the tents reserved for the royalty and the tents of ordinary dwarves was indeed the presence of the guards. Otherwise all the tents looked pretty similar with their angular shapes, high roofs and the stove chimneys that peeked through the roofs. Due to wearing the Ring, Bilbo couldn't tell the colour of the tents, but he assumed that they were some shade of blue, as Thorin's people seemed to be particularly fond of that colour.

Between Bilbo and the royal tents there were two large water barrels and Bilbo could hazily recall hiding between them the evening before. A small but loud crowd had gathered around the water barrels and the dwarves were all holding various water skins, bottles and buckets with the obvious intent of filling them with water. While the crowd looked rather chaotic to an untrained eye, there was obviously some kind of a queue among it and the dwarves all clearly knew who had been there first and who should still wait for their turn.

The gurgling sounds of the water reminded Bilbo of his thirst and so he stepped cautiously closer to the barrels. The dwarves were bickering and jostling each other and – invisible as he was – it would have been impossible for him to have a turn to get water from the actual barrels. So, instead, he eventually ended up crouching down by the dwarf whose turn it was to fill his containers. One of the dwarf's several buckets was already full and Bilbo satisfied his thirst by drinking from that full bucket. He gulped down mouthful after mouthful of cool, refreshing water, and if anyone noticed how the water level in the bucket kept slowly sinking, no-one acknowledged it out loud.

Once his thirst was satisfied, Bilbo crawled quickly away from the stamping boots and all the unexpected saliva that kept dropping on him – the warriors had a habit of spitting on the ground and Bilbo, to his great exasperation, happened to get in the firing line more often than not.

Ordinary-looking tents though they may have been in reality, the three royal tents appeared ominous and threatening to Bilbo. He was painfully aware of the fact that one of these three tents belonged to Thorin and that it certainly wasn't a good idea to accidentally bump into the vengeful king. Wiggling his toes to keep his feet warm, Bilbo stood nervously and undecided in front of the tent in the middle and pondered whether he should just run for his life and avoid entering at all costs. After all, with all things considered, it would have been foolish – if not altogether suicidal – to try to enter Thorin's tent! If Gandalf was in one of these tents, he would eventually have to exit and if Bilbo simply waited outside for Gandalf to step out, he could then speak to the wizard without ever having to enter, without ever having to risk being in Thorin's currently rather unpredictable presence.

It would have indeed been foolish to try to enter Thorin's tent, that Bilbo certainly realized, but he couldn't help the way his Tookish side kept whispering to him insisting that he should take at least a peek at Thorin, that he should verify himself whether Thorin indeed was still under the Curse of Dragon before running away and leaving for good. Before leaving, he _needed_ to see Thorin, he _needed_ to know what had become of his friends – in one word, he needed _closure_.

The flap of the tent on Bilbo's right was suddenly swiped aside and a bulky dwarf, dressed in the simple robes of a healer, stepped outside, nodding curtly at the warrior standing at guard. As she stopped - by Bilbo, unknowingly - to gaze up at the sky, whispering something in Khuzdul, the sunlight reflected momentarily of the lenses of her glasses and of the metal clasps she had used to attach her dark beard to the one single, practical plait that hung down her back. As Bilbo watched, she sighed and began to walk across the clearing, her form slightly slumped.

Bilbo probably would have forgotten all about her, hadn't an unexpected, sudden shout caused both him and the healer to halt in place.

”Healer Giril, a moment of your time if you please!” called out a voice and a dwarf – _Dain_ – walked briskly and with purpose towards them from the other side of the clearing.

At the sight of the dwarven lord, Bilbo reeled back, his heart suddenly in his throat. The image of the black axe forced itself in his mind and Bilbo had to cover his mouth and nose with his hands to stifle the loud wheezing sounds that kept escaping him. Where he had been nervous and hesitant before, he was now terrified, as seeing Dain made him truly think how close he had come to getting beheaded by the dwarven lord's hand the evening before.

By order of Thorin.

”You have been ignoring my orders,” Dain said as soon as he reached them, addressing his words to the healer (who had let out a quiet, discontented grunt upon noticing Dain), oblivious to Bilbo's presence. ”I have been waiting to get an update on the condition of the young princes for the past _three hours_ , but so far no-one has bothered to come and tell me whether they even live or not! I have various duties and hundreds of warriors to feed – and far too many to bury – and I certainly cannot spare the time to run from one tent to another to ask things. All information concerning the condition of the heirs of Thorin Oakenshield is _vital_ to me and you need to keep me informed at all times, no matter how inconvenient that might be for you.”

”His lordship may have warriors to feed and bury,” said Giril gruffly, her manner stiff, ”but I have dwarves to heal, many lives to save. I admit that I may have been ignoring my duties when it comes to keeping his lordship informed, but if I'm forced to choose between stabilizing a patient and running after his lordship to tell him that someone has just collapsed, I will _not_ choose the latter, regardless of the consequences - my duties lie with my patients, first and foremost.”

”You are in no way obligated to keep me informed by yourself in person,” said Dain, ”but I do except you to send me regular updates on Oakenshield's heirs via servants. It will take quite a lot of time and effort to arrange a royal funeral – let alone two, if neither of the princes survive – and if I have to spare some of my advisers to do the necessary arrangements, I want to know beforehand, or as soon as possible, so that I can be prepared.”

”The condition of both princes is currently stable,” said Giril. ”Tharkûn aided me in healing them. I estimate that they will regain consciousness in a few days or so, but it is obviously impossible to know beforehand for certain. In any case, I would assume that it is unnecessary to talk about their funeral arrangements just yet, for it appears that they will live. When it comes to _my_ condition, on the other hand, I can safely say that I am terribly tired and hungry and in no mood to argue with anyone, for I haven't got a wink of sleep since the beginning of the battle, and so I would ask his lordship to get the _grûck_ out of my way and _let me get some rest_. I will... try to keep him better informed in the future.”

While Dain and Giril had talked, Bilbo had made his way, unnoticed, to the tent from which Giril had just stepped out. Now he lifted the flap slightly and slipped inside without anyone being the wiser.

It was somewhat darker inside the tent but not as much that a candle would have been required. After his eyes had adjusted to these darker surroundings, Bilbo could make out the two makeshift beds in the middle of the tent and a hunched figure sitting on a chair between the two beds. Stepping closer, he recognized the hunched figure and saw that it was, in fact, a snoozing Ori.

Ori had scratches on his face and his right arm on a sling, but otherwise he looked intact and relatively well. He had placed himself between Fili and Kili who both laid on their backs under several layers of blankets, silent and unmoving. Fili and Kili were both far too pale and Bilbo would have thought them dead if it wasn't for the steady, regular rising and falling of their chests.

Tears welled up in Bilbo's eyes as he looked at the three sleeping dwarves. Fili, Kili, Ori – they were far too young and full of dreams and hope and _life_ to be involved in any of this. Dori had been saying that since the beginning of the Quest and unfortunately it seemed like he had been proved right. Bilbo reminded himself that it didn't really matter if Fili and Kili currently looked rather... ill, for Healer Giril had just told Dain that they _would_ make it, that they _would_ survive. Surely the healer wouldn't have lied, at least not to Dain!

Bilbo stroke Fili's fair hair, sniffling a bit.

”You will make it, Fili,” he then whispered in the dwarf's ear. ”You _will make it._ You will come back to Kili and Thorin, even if I won't be here to witness it. You _will_ survive - you'll just wait and see.”

He told Kili the same thing, petting the darker hair as well, and he would have undoubtedly said more to the both of them, hadn't Nori entered the tent just then, prompting Bilbo into freezing and snapping his mouth shut.

While it was nice to see that Nori, too, had survived the battle more or less unscathed, it wasn't nice at all to see the suspicious way the dwarf now looked around the tent. Nori's eyes were narrowed and his gaze flickered from Ori to Fili and Kili, only to come to a sudden halt as his eyes fell on Kili's hair, on the exact same spot where Bilbo had placed his hand. Something akin to triumph flashed in the thief's eyes then and, glancing quickly down at his hand, Bilbo realized to his horror that Kili's hair had to be standing up in such an odd angle that it was easy for Nori to conclude that an invisible hand was stroking it.

It was just then that Ori began to move. Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked groggily at his brother.

”Nori?” he mumbled in a hoarse voice. ”What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be watching the water barrels in case Bilbo turns up and reveals himself by drinking from them?”

Bilbo gave the scribe a sharp look. The water barrels had been watched? Well, of course they had been. The dwarves must have anticipated the way Bilbo eventually had to go and get himself something to drink. He cursed himself for being so careless. He really should have come to think that someone would be keeping an eye on the barrels – why hadn't he tried to find water from somewhere else, somewhere _safer_ , like from the cooking areas, or a water skin from someone's tent!

Bilbo bit his lip, now it was too late for regrets. The damage had already been done if the glint in Nori's eyes was anything to go by. Now all Bilbo could do was to try and escape this new, unfortunate situation. Slowly he withdrew his hand, trying not to move a single hair on Kili's head. Unfortunately, his attempt failed and Kili's hair fell to his original place the moment Bilbo's fingers were no longer touching the locks. Nori's sharp gaze was focused on this movement, while a slow grin spread out on his face.

Ori was oblivious to any of this and simply let out a groan, rubbing his face in a worn manner.

"Please, don't tell me that you are here to check up on me on behalf of Dori," he pleaded, his voice low and pained. "I already told him - mere _hours_ ago - that I have, indeed, been taking my potions and that I have, in fact, eaten today - four times so far, and very well on each occasion! As it happens, I am also wearing my mittens and a pair of woolly socks, and I even have a blanket."

Nori snorted.

"When have I ever done something 'on behalf of Dori'," he muttered. "From his point of view, I'm probably usually doing quite the opposite of that. No, Ori, I'm here strictly to help a friend: as it _does_ happen, I think I've just managed to locate our burglar.”

”You've... what?” Ori scratched his head, giving Nori a bleary, confused look, until a sudden understanding lit his face and he pointed a finger at Nori. ”You don't mean... Do you mean... _Bilbo_ is- Is Bilbo _here_? In this tent? As in _right now?_ ”

”Indeed he is,” answered Nori, smirking and glancing around them. ”I was keeping an eye on the water barrels as agreed when suddenly I noticed the water level sinking in one specific bucket. It was a new bucket, obviously of good dwarven quality and had only just been filled, so the water level sinking without any detectable reason naturally immediately drew my attention. There were many dwarves spitting around in that particular area and I also noticed how some of that spit simply disappeared midair long before hitting the ground. It wasn't difficult to conclude that our burglar had put his Ring on and was sneaking around, drinking water and getting spit at.”

That was all true, Bilbo knew, trying not to think of all the drying spit that covered his coat.

”But how do you know he's _here_ , in this tent?” demanded Ori, keeping his voice down most likely for Fili and Kili's sake, for he didn't look otherwise timid at all. He had risen up to his feet and was now looking wildly around, his blanket long forgotten on the ground.

”The tent flap,” said Nori, smirking with such self-importance that Bilbo had to roll his eyes. "It moved on its own accord as if someone was pushing it aside in order to enter."

”Bombur will be delighted to hear that he anticipated Bilbo's moves this well, then,” muttered Ori before clearing his throat and addressing the tent in general.

”Uh... Bilbo? Hello?” he said, his gaze going slowly around the tent. ”You can become visible now. We won't hurt you, I give you my word. Just... let us talk for a bit, okay? You see, there has been a _horrible_ misunderstanding!”

”Rather _ridiculous_ misunderstanding if you asked me,” muttered Nori. "Why don't we just get Dain to explain everything to Bilbo. It was Dain, after all, who started this all by failing to do what he was asked to do. It's _he_ who should be-"

There was a current of air as an invisible form slammed against the entrance flap, moving it aside. Nori let out a curse in Khuzdul and even Ori said something about "the bottom of a shoe" – it was easy to detect that Bilbo had just left the tent, that Bilbo had just escaped.

Bilbo had surged right pass Nori and straight out of the tent, barely believing that Nori had just suggested _calling for Dain_. He did his best to quell the pain that he felt from finding out that all three Ri brothers - even sweet little Ori - were apparently assisting Thorin in his attempt at getting Bilbo executed. If Ori and Nori thought that he was foolish enough to stay and listen to explanations of "misunderstandings" while waiting for _Dain_ to arrive - when there were orders to get him executed, orders that Dain had thankfully failed to fill - well, they were certainly mistaken!

Bilbo had to admit that if his friends had been putting guards near water barrels - and who knew where else - they had been more organized with trying to find him than he had initially assumed which was a rather worrying aspect. It was truly beginning to seem that if he wanted to survive this ordeal intact, he needed to find help, _had to_ find help – he had to find _Gandalf_ – as soon as possible.

Without further ado, Bilbo took a risk and bolted to the tent next to Fili and Kili's, entering as quickly as he could, wishing with all his heart that he would find Gandalf in that tent.

There was no Gandalf in that tent, to Bilbo's bitter disappointment. Instead, there was Dwalin who was sitting on a chair with a pile of parchments in his lap, reading them with a bored look on his face. When Bilbo entered the tent, he brought a breath of cold Autumn air with him, causing Dwalin's parchments to rustle. Dwalin looked up from the parchment he was reading, but Bilbo didn't notice this, nor did he notice the way Dwalin's eyes narrowed, nor the way the warrior put all the parchments slowly down onto the bedside table.

Had it only been Dwalin in the tent, Bilbo wouldn't have been as distracted as he was. No, he would have exited as quickly and quietly as he had entered. But as it happened, it wasn't only Dwalin and Bilbo there in the tent, no, no, certainly not, for there was a third person in the tent too, and the state of that third person was enough to halt all Bilbo's movements, enough to cease all his actions: next to Dwalin, laying on a makeshift bed, there was – Thorin.

The sight of Thorin drew all breath from Bilbo. With his eyes glued on the still form on the bed, he slumped forward until he was standing by Thorin, opposite of Dwalin. Untill now, Bilbo had imagined Thorin to have survived the battle with only minor wounds. He had imagined Thorin to have been in all his power by now, giving curt orders and seeing to the arrangements that needed to be done. In his mind, he had seen a mighty Thorin, a proud Thorin, Thorin waiting to be crowned, Thorin rebuilding his kingdom. Never had Bilbo even suspected that instead of all that, Thorin would lie silently in the shadows of a dark, cool tent, as still as his unconscious nephews, as white as the bandages that had been wrapped around his chest. Untill now, Bilbo had assumed that Thorin would be _well_ in body, at least, if not in mind.

Bilbo's chin trembled, as he witnessed the misery of his dear, dear friend. After watching for a while, Bilbo forced his thoughts in some form of an order, for he had no choice but to do so, under current circumstances - he had no time to linger if he didn't want to get caught. He quickly came to the conclusion that Thorin must have been conscious at some point to have given Dain the orders to get him executed. If Thorin was giving execution orders in as bad a condition as this while his nephews were lying unconscious in the next tent, the situation had to be much more dire than Bilbo had initially assumed – the Gold Lust had to have _very a tight_ hold of Thorin's mind, if not even the fact that his sister-sons were gravely injured had been enough to cure him.

Thorin couldn't be reasoned with when he was under the Curse of Dragon, that much Bilbo had learnt the hard way in the course of the past week. If Bilbo didn't want to get executed in the near future, he would have to leave immediately, he would have to escape while Thorin was still too weak to come after him. If he waited untill Thorin got better, the dwarf just might find a way to catch him. That was something Bilbo really shouldn't – couldn't, _wouldn't_ – risk.

Bilbo didn't get any further with his thoughts, as Ori burst into the tent just then, causing Bilbo to give a start.

”Nori and I detected Bilbo not three minutes ago,” Ori told Dwalin hastily, and it wasn't until now that Bilbo noticed – to his further fright – that while he had been focused on Thorin, the bald warrior had stood up and moved to stand closer to him, behind him, almost close enough to touch.

”Where?” grunted Dwalin, looking straight at – and through – Bilbo before moving his gaze slightly to the left.

”Nori noticed him near the water barrels earlier,” said Ori, fingering the edge of his sling in a nervous manner. ”From there, he followed him into Fili and Kili's tent. Bilbo ran off as soon as Dain was mentioned... Nori is already organizing new search parties, he sent me to tell you.”

”Stay there at the entrance,” Dwalin gave the command as well as a curt nod to acknowledge Ori's words. ”Don't move from there. Block it, don't let anyone pass you. I think Baggins just might be here with us.”

As if Ori's eyes hadn't been large before, now they widened even more.

”H-here?” he said in a low voice. ”Bilbo ran _here_? Into _Thorin's_ tent?”

”It appears so,” Dwalin said gruffly, waving his arms about, feeling the air around him with his hands. ”I thought I noticed him coming in and your words have now confirmed that I truly did. He _is_ here. I know it.”

”Uh, well, then,” said Ori, swallowing hard, glancing around. ”Perhaps we should then explain the situation to him. Uh, Bilbo, why don't we-”

Ori let out a squawk, taken off guard, when Bilbo bumped into him and pushed him aside with force, muttering his sincere apologies as he did so. Bilbo was out of the tent and running away before Ori had managed to scramble back to his feet.

”I told you to block the entrance!” Dwalin's voice echoed in the peaceful afternoon, but Bilbo didn't stick around to find out if Ori answered.

Bilbo never had the chance to see whether Gandalf was in the third royal tent or not, for there were now too many dwarves standing in front that tent and so he simply couldn't risk entering. Instead, he chose to run as fast as he could, heading towards the outermost circle of the camp so that the dwarves wouldn't get a chance to surround him and to block his path. While he ran, he made a firm decision not to venture further into the dwarven camp again – if Gandalf was indeed in the camp, Bilbo would have to survive without his help, difficult though as that would be. He simply couldn't risk trying to find the wizard with all the vengeful dwarves running around.

Doing his best not to run into anyone, Bilbo sneaked pass various tents until he reached the tents that belonged to guards and the warriors of the lower ranks – the outermost circle, that was. Once there, he crouched down onto the ground, spent, exhausted and quite shaken.

Ever the practical Baggins of Bag End, Bilbo soon forced himself to focus on forming survival plans instead of allowing himself to dwell in emotions. His first course of action was to dig into his pocket, for he had a loaf of rye bread there, leftover of the last meal he had had in Erebor with the Company. Eating never failed to calm him down and so he nibbled at the loaf (trying to convince himself that the meagre piece of bread was enough to take his gnawing hunger away).

While nibbling, Bilbo decided that he should start his escape – his journey back to the Shire – by getting a bag and by filling that bag with necessary items, with everything that he would need in the wilderness, such as water and food. Warmer clothes he would need as well, judging from the rapidly dropping temperatures. _Sting_ he still had with him and so he wouldn't need any more weapons, or so he at least hoped.

It might have been surprising, or unexpected at least, but now that Bilbo had something to focus on, something other than his fear, anguish and sadness, he found his situation more manageable. It was now easier to Think and he swore to himself to do his best to keep himself alive – Eru Ilúvatar helped those who helped themselves, after all, or so his mother had used to tell him. As long as Bilbo did one thing at a time and spent more time actually doing things rather than worrying about them, his chances of survival were rather high.

Well, not exactly ”high”, but hopefully not that low either.

He had now seen most of his friends, excluding Oin and Gandalf, and while seeing Thorin, Fili and Kili lying still and deathly pale wasn't exactly the closure he had been hoping to get, it was all that he would get. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to keep on living – which he certainly did, thank you very much – he had no other option but to adapt to the situation.

Bilbo gazed at the Ring again, considering - in passing - taking it off. It was truly making him _anxious_ and he felt that he had been wearing it for far too long already. Still, it was pretty obvious that before he could give up his sheltering invisibility, he would have to get so far from Erebor that he wouldn't risk running to any dwarves. Eager to take the Ring off his finger as soon as possible, as his shadowy surroundings felt very oppressive and suffocating and he didn't like them _at all_ , Bilbo made a mental list of all the things he would need to escape.

Then, in his desperation, he lived up to his title, _Burglar_ , for the several following hours and sneaked into various tents to steal everything that he assumed he would later need. As he had no intention of venturing further into the camp, it was a great relief to him that the tents in the outermost circle contained several items that were of interest to him. He had a few coins in his pockets, picked up absent-mindedly from the treasury of Erebor just a few days earlier, and – to ease his conscience – Bilbo was careful to leave a coin in exchange for the more expensive items he stole. Some of these more expensive items were a pair of warm trousers, a winter coat and a bag from a dwarf that was obviously fond of embroidery, but he also stole food, two water skins and several smaller items.

By the time Bilbo had managed to acquire himself all that he could think of needing in the wilderness – among other things: warm clothes, a flint pouch, rope, some ointments and bandages, food and the water skins - the night had fallen and the only source of light were the torches and the lanterns here and there in the camp. Recognizing the need to rest, Bilbo slipped cautiously into a tent whose occupants were already deep asleep, judging from the loud snores, and curled up in one of the corners as close to the stove as he dared to go. In the warmth of the stove and his new winter coat, he hugged the stolen bag close to his chest and prayed - begged - Ilúvatar to heal Thorin, Fili and Kili and to protect him and all of his friends.

* * *

_Day Three_

Bilbo woke up to a landscape full of snow. Despite of all his wishes, it kept snowing most of the day and he had to admit that it would have been foolish of him to try to walk away from the camp - he might as well allowed Thorin to execute him, so certain a death it would have been to now leave the camp on foot. Luck didn't abandon him completely, however, for he found out that some of the engineers were preparing to go to Lake-town that same evening to see whether they could be of help in the evacuations.

It took Bilbo the whole day, but eventually he did manage to find the cart that was supposed to take the engineers to Lake-town and by then it had thankfully stopped snowing. After only a little bit of hesitation, Bilbo climbed onto the cart and hid as well as he could, considering there was nothing behind which he could have hidden. Still, when the three engineers followed his suit and climbed up onto the cart a couple of hours later and the ponies finally began to pull the cart towards Lake-town, no-one noticed the invisible hobbit huddled in one of the corners.

As the cart passed by the royal tents, Bilbo saw dwarves singing cheerfully by campfires and guards in their chain mails pacing in front of Thorin, Fili and Kili's tents. Bilbo didn't know that Thorin had awakened, nor did he know that Thorin and Dwalin were just sitting in a comfortable silence in Thorin's tent, both of them completely oblivious of Bilbo's proximity.

Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And waaaaarm hugs to everyone who left me a comment and kudos! You're so great!


	6. Dori: Days Two and Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”'You're supposed to swallow _four_ spoonfuls of the green liquid in the morning,' Dori reminded Ori, 'and just _two_ of the brown one in the evening.'”

_Day Two_

”Come away from there,” said Dori in a scolding manner, grasping his younger brother by the uninjured arm and guiding him determinedly back to the bed, away from the tent's entrance where Ori – swaying on his feet – had been looking at Fili and Kili's tent in a wistful manner for the better part of the past minute. ”You won't help Their Highnesses by straining yourself, Ori, quite the opposite, as it will only task the healers further and prevent them from focusing on the young princes.”

”But I'd really like to go to see them,” said Ori softly. ”Dori, please, Fili and Kili are my best friends and now they're all alone in there, aren't they, with Thorin being injured and me being here. There's _no-one_ with them, and when they wake up, they will undoubtedly be _terribly upset_.”

Dori helped his brother onto the bed and, once the boy was lying on his back, scoffed and hurried to move Ori's limbs gently but determinedly into a more comfortable position – the boy had a tendency to cross his legs at ankles, a dreadful habit he had adopted from Nori and one Dori was doing his best to discourage. After covering Ori with two blankets – his own and Ori's – Dori stepped pass Bofur's bed and over Bifur's thread collection to the only unmade bed in the tent. Huffing with disapproval, he gathered Nori's blanket into his arms and went back to Ori, sending exasperated glances towards the untidy surroundings of Nori's bed over his shoulder.

The tent the Ri brothers shared with the Urs was similar to the size and shape of any other tent in the camp but just as all the tents occupied by the common folk, there were several people sharing the cramped space which did make things rather frustrating to those who _wanted to keep things in order_ and to those who _cared about tidiness_. When Dori had asked Nori to not spit on the ground when inside the tent and called Nori's attention to the knives, picklocks and dirty clothes scattered here and there around Nori's bed, Nori had done _nothing_ to rectify the situation, absolutely nothing!

Even though this _ignorance_ and the general mess his brother had made had really distressed Dori, he had tried to be patient and so he had simply asked Nori in a kind manner, time after time, to clean up after himself. Nori had eventually left the tent and stomped off to who knows where, muttering about ”nagging brothers” and sticks in places that Dori prefered not to think of. It was certainly more than enough to have one brother with bad behaviour and so Dori was determined to keep Ori – who was young, naive and unfortunately impressionable – as far away from crude manners as he simply could.

Dori spread the third blanket over Ori's slender form to prevent the boy from getting cold.

”The _princes_ are not alone,” he then assured, emphasizing Fili and Kili's status in order to gently remind Ori of the proper way to refer to the royalty – being friends with the Durins certainly didn't justify improper behaviour and poor manners; as far as Dori was concerned, _nothing_ did. ”Surely there is at least one healer with them. And in any case, little vârpu, you should be more concerned with your own health. Have you yet even drunk the potions Master Oin gave you this morning?”

”Of course I have,” claimed Ori, his gaze flickering towards the tent's entrance. Dori moved subtly to the right to block Ori's view, hoping that it would be enough to take all the foolish notions out of the lad's head. Perhaps if Ori didn't see the entrance, he would stop thinking about leaving the tent – ”out of sight, out of mind,” as the saying went.

”You're supposed to swallow _four_ spoonfuls of the green liquid in the morning,” Dori reminded Ori, ”and just _two_ of the brown one in the evening.”

”I know,” muttered Ori.

”It's almost noon already,” Dori continued. ”Have you even had anything to eat today, apart from the chicken I brought for you?”

”I have,” said Ori, his voice muffled due to all the blankets. ”I ate porridge for breakfast, and then more porridge not an hour ago.”

”You've only eaten porridge today?” worried Dori. ”There's barely any meat in that. Oh, Ori, you should know better than to have such unbalanced diet when injured. I better go and get you some nourishing roast immediately, I'm sure Bombur still has some left. And if he doesn't, he'll make some just for you.”

”Oh,” Ori let out a breath, ”uh, I'm not really hungry anymore, Dori, so you don't need to-”

”Not _hungry_?” cried Dori, aghast, hastening to feel Ori's forehead in case of fever. ”You have lost your appetite, uhumûd? But Master Oin _assured_ me that you were getting better already! I have to get him back here immediately to re-examine you and he better do it _properly_ this time, or else I'll give him an earful – and not only of words.” 

Dori ignored all Ori's objections and left him in the tent with strict orders to try and get rest. He then tried to locate the royal healer, which turned out to be surprisingly easy.

Oin was sitting on a wooden block outside Thorin's tent, a bowl of something steaming and delicious-smelling balanced on his knee, a red sausage in one hand, a fork in the other. The healer wasn't happy at all to have his early lunch interrupted. Instead of hurrying to see Ori, he simply grunted and continued eating, much to Dori's exasperation.

”It sounds like there's nothing wrong with the lad's appetite,” Oin claimed, chewing a piece of sausage in a rather noisy manner. ”Young Ori just probably wasn't hungry anymore after having already eaten twice today – it's not yet even noon, after all, and most people have only eaten once today, if even that.”

” _'Probably'?_ ” Dori seethed, glaring at the healer. ”There might be something seriously wrong with my brother and you're settling with 'probably'?”

”It appears that way, yes,” nodded Oin. ”Now go away, Dori, and let me eat my meal. This is the first time since yesterday morning that I have had a moment to myself and I would like to keep it that way – _to myself_.”

Oin did look exhausted with the dark circles under his eyes and his beard in tangles. In any other situation Dori would have left the healer be, but when it came to his brothers and their well-being, Dori had always been quite... determined, to put it mildly, and so he now flicked his nose and crossed his arms and refused to move an inch. Oin didn't seem to care, for he pocketed his ear trumpet and began to fork his meal.

Well, Oin didn't _seem_ to care, but it appeared that he did so anyway: it only took Dori a half an hour of following the healer around for Oin to finally twirl around to face him and say that Ori was obviously suffering from a dire case of _daragum-az-bâdad-agrum_ , ”another person holding on to his arse to keep it from hitting the ground”, which was a saying used to describe a situation where someone was being unreasonably and annoyingly overprotective of a person under their care.

Dori found it so scandalous and upsetting to hear Oin – a _healer_ – to use such crude language that he never really managed to ponder the meaning behind the saying. Instead, he informed Oin that he wouldn't let such rude dwarf near his brother and that Oin better calm down before he came to see Ori again. Oin muttered something about Dori just having proved his point before he entered one of the healing tents and Dori was left standing outside alone.

He didn't have to sputter there alone for long, though, for Bombur and Bofur soon appeared from behind one of the tents, both of them looking tired but resolute. Upon noticing Dori, Bofur smiled tensely and nudged his brother with his elbow. Bombur, too, looked over at Dori and so the two Urs changed their course and walked straight to Dori.

”There's something we need to tell you,” Bombur said quietly when they were close enough to touch, grasping Dori by the left arm while Bofur took a hold of Dori's right arm.

”Not here,” added the toymaker in a low voice, casting a cautious look around them. ”We better go somewhere where we won't be overheard. There's something we have to tell you, Dori, and it's better that... that _certain_ people remain oblivious to it for the time being.”

”What are you on about?” demanded Dori, trying in vain to pull himself free.

”You'll find out soon enough,” muttered Bofur, tightening his hold on Dori's arm, ”but this is no place for the talk we're about to have. Come on, Dori, we'll tell you everything when we're somewhere other than the main road.”

They were indeed standing right in the middle of the main road, blocking the way of several impatient dwarves, including a group of warriors that was rolling the refilled water barrels back towards the centre of the camp. This road had been formed between the tents on purpose, by order of one of Dain's engineers, the one that was responsible for the safety regulations in the camp (which was a task no-one in their right mind would have envied of him; all the other engineers were green with envy). The road ran straight through the camp, through the centre in the middle, going from west to east, flanked on both sides by tents of Durin's blue. It was as busy a road as only a main road in a dwarven camp could be with some of the warriors marching purposefully towards their destination, others loitering here and there, guards shouting at drunken dwarves to go to take a piss _elsewhere_ and not on the main road _or else_.

”What exactly do you need to tell me?” asked Dori, growing more worried by each passing moment seeing the pinched looks on his friends' faces. ”And why the secrecy? And who are these 'certain people' you wish to keep oblivious?”

”We'll tell you when we're alone,” promised Bofur in an uncharacteristically terse manner.

Though Dori expressed his objections to leave the safety of the main road and even told Bofur and Bombur of Ori's lack of appetite – which certainly needed Dori's immediate attention – he was led to a more desolate part of the camp, near the disposal pits. Once they were standing between two large disposal pits, Bofur and Bombur finally came to a halt and turned to face Dori, letting go off his arms. Gagging, Dori hurried to cover his nostrils with his sleeve, so pungent was the smell of urine and faeces that near the pits.

”Now then, Dori,” said Bofur without further ado. He was holding his nostrils closed with his fingers and so his voice had a nasal quality to it. ”It appears that we have a problem.”

The next few minutes were spent by Bofur and Bombur explaining to Dori what had happened to one certain burglar in the course of the past day. As the story progressed, the expressions on Dori's face changed from bemusement and worry to disbelief and finally to anger. Once Bofur and Bombur fell silent after saying all they had to say, Dori was equally scandalized, worried and outraged.

”Well I never!” he huffed, tears streaming down his face due to the pungent smell all around them.

He didn't say anything more, too upset to do much else but huff, frown and shake his head in a stiff manner. He had been under the belief that all members of the Company, apart from the Durins, had survived the battle with minor injuries and to hear that Bilbo had almost been killed by one of their own after the battle – well, by one of the Iron Hill dwarves, _obviously_ – was too outrageous to even begin to comprehend.

When asked by Bofur, Dori agreed to help with the search for Bilbo.

”But I have to go see Ori first,” he added. ”And we'll need to take him something to eat, Bombur, as he hasn't eaten anything but porridge – and a bit of chicken – today. I'm worried for his health.”

With that, determined not to waste a moment, Dori turned his back on the two Urs and began to march back towards the main road and their tent that was situated by the road. With his back on his friends, he missed Bofur's resigned eye-roll and the half-amused, half-exasperated glance the toymaker exchanged with Bombur.

To Dori's shock, Ori wasn't in their tent. Ori's bed was empty and his boots were gone, along with one of the blankets and his favourite mittens, the soft red ones. On the pillow there was a note written in Khuzdul with neat, precise handwriting.

> _Gone to see Fili and Kili. Ori_

Grumbling to himself with exasperation, Dori folded the note and pocketed it. It appeared that while he had been gone, Ori had forgotten all about the way Dori had told him to try and get rest.

”Young ones and their span of attention,” Dori muttered to himself, taking the bowl of roast from Bombur who had fetched the food from the cooking area in a record time (and was now subtly eating it).

When Dori entered Fili and Kili's tent with Bofur and Bombur – they were granted entrance only due to their status as members of Thorin's Company – they found Ori sitting on a chair between the beds where the unconscious princes were lying. A lump rose in Dori's throat at the sight of Fili and Kili and he would have hauled Ori right out of the tent and back to bed to keep him from bothering the injured princes hadn't a healer called Giril put a hand on his arm and asked him to let Ori stay.

”It might be good for the princes to have a familiar voice talking to them, to keep them company, unconscious though they may currently be,” Giril claimed.

Dori had never been one to question authority and so, reluctantly, he allowed his brother to stay, but only after the healer examined Ori thoroughly – at Dori's request – and declared that Ori was well enough to be sitting on a chair on his own.

When Healer Giril went outside to fetch more clean bandages, Bofur and Bombur told Ori of Bilbo, although not quite with Dori's consent. Dori would have prefered not to burden Ori with such ill news, but on the other hand he had to admit that the boy had a right to be aware of the situation as Bilbo's friend and as a member of Thorin's Company. So, while Dori cut up Ori's roast, Bofur and Bombur filled Ori in on the details of the situation. Ori swallowed hard and blinked furiously, but otherwise he took the news in a seemingly calm manner – Dori didn't know this, but Ori was trying not to agitate him by not getting visibly upset, as he knew that Dori would never leave his side and go look for Bilbo if he didn't think that Ori was well enough to be left (momentarily) on his own.

”Who else is looking for Bilbo?” asked Ori and Bombur gave him a quick overview of all those places where a dwarf had been placed to keep a subtle eye out for an invisible hobbit as well as of those dwarves who were currently searching for him in the camp and around the battlefield. Dwalin had formed several searching groups of Dain's most discreet people as well as of the uninjured members of the Company and they all worked in rotation so that there would be constantly someone looking for Bilbo while the others got to rest for a bit.

”You ought to go look for him too, then,” ushered Ori, frowning. ”We'll be fine here, Fili, Kili and I, but Bilbo is in desperate need of your help.”

Bofur and Bombur did leave then, clapping Ori in the shoulder and sparing Fili and Kili looks of pity as they went, but it still took a few more minutes for Dori to follow after them. He had to make sure that Ori ate all the roast, after all.

* * *

The stamped, blackened battlefield had become notably emptier in the course of the night and now only the carcasses of orcs and wargs remained. The carcasses had already been piled up in large hills and Dori assumed that Dain's warriors were merely waiting for the rising wind to veer to the south or south-west, away from the camp, before they would set them on fire. He wished that the wind would turn soon for he loathed the sight of the beasts and wanted them destroyed as soon as possible.

Dori, Bombur and Bofur were now searching the battlefield with thirty of Dain's more experienced warriors – and with one fair-haired warrior who couldn't be more than eighty-five, if that. The lad's name was Tiru and he was the only one in a group of eight Ru cousins that hadn't gotten injured during the battle, a fact that had made him so moody and ill-tempered that Rea, as the head of his unit, had ordered him to come to help with Bilbo's search simply to keep him out of trouble.

Dori walked forward carefully, feeling around with his feet and the long walking stick Rea had provided him with, just in case Bilbo was lying somewhere on the ground, unconscious or sleeping. He was just about to call out to Bombur and suggest that they should move their search further east when the young lad, Tiru, let out a sudden, startled cry.

Tiru was standing at the foot of one of the hills of wargs, pointing a finger up at the hill.

” _One of the wargs is still alive!_ ” he called out in Khuzdul, motioning frantically for the other dwarves to come closer. ” _I heard it let out a growl!_ ”

Startled by the possibility that there was still at least one warg alive, Dori unsheathed his sword with slightly clumsy movements and approached the warg hill cautiously, Bombur, Bofur and Dain's warriors quickly following his suit. Bofur and Bombur frowned at the hill, while Dori swallowed hard and clenched the hilt of his sword in his fist, his heart in his throat – he had hoped to avoid all battles and fights for the rest of his life and an unexpected appearance of an alive, hungry warg would not be welcome in any way.

” _Do you think it might attack me?_ ” Tiru asked, a look of almost feverish anticipation in his eyes. ” _Perhaps it will give me a scar. Then I wouldn't be the only one uninjured – then I would have something to show to Aunt Brindi, to prove her that I wasn't hiding like some coward while all of my cousins fought for their lives!_ ”

It was survivor guilt the lad was feeling, Dori realized, his heart going out for the poor boy.

”We shall talk about that later, Master Tiru,” said Rea in gruff Westron, giving Tiru an assessing sidelong glance. ”I need you to focus on the task at hand: where exactly was the growl coming from, can you say?”

Tiru willingly pointed out the direction and Rea, along with two of her largest warriors, began to climb uphill. To Tiru's disappointment and embarrassment, the three warriors found no evidence of any a warg having still been alive and, after a relatively long while of studying the hill, Rea let out a grunt and sheathed her sword, her pose relaxing slightly.

”It was no warg, Master Tiru,” she said tersely. ”And thank Eru for that.”

”I'm sure I heard _something_ ,” Tiru insisted even though most of the older warriors had already gone back to searching for Bilbo. ”It sounded like a growl, it _must_ have been a warg! Is it not our duty to make sure that it's not alive?”

”If you truly heard a warg growling, my boy,” Dori said soothingly, patting the young dwarf in the shoulder in a patronizing manner, ”it's dead by now. Otherwise it would have already attacked us. You must have heard wrong.”

”I didn't!” cried Tiru, shrugging Dori's hand off his shoulder. ”There was something there, I heard it!”

”Perhaps you head Bombur's stomach rumbling,” suggested Bofur. ”He hasn't eaten anything in an hour and so it's getting empty.”

”Please don't remind me, brother,” moaned Bombur, rubbing his belly in a wistful manner. ”I am growing hungry, but we do not have the time for meals right now – we have a hobbit to find.”

”Perhaps it was the hobbit that I heard,” muttered Tiru sourly.

”I assure you,” said Dori patiently, ”that I have never heard Mister Baggins _growl_. To my ken hobbits are not in a habit of growling. If you truly heard something akin to a growl, it must have indeed been Bombur's rumbling stomach.”

Dori turned away from the hill, but Bofur looked up at the wargs with a contemplative, thoughtful look on his face. While Dori spent the next several hours scouting out the battlefield, Bofur climbed on each of the warg hills calling for Bilbo every few minutes, lifting various carcasses just in case the hobbit was hiding under one of them.

They didn't find Bilbo that day though they searched for him through the night.

* * *

_Day Three_

”I need you to go to sit with Thorin,” said Dwalin as soon as he had noticed Dori by candlelight after entering the tent the Ris and the Urs resided.

Apart from Dori, there were only Bombur and Bofur in the tent, both of the brothers deep asleep after a day, a night and another day and half a night of looking for and worrying over Bilbo. Dori on his part hadn't really managed to sleep from his worries and so he was now sitting on his bed, knitting socks for Nori with grey yarn.

Bombur's snoring and the sound of knitting filled the tent in a pleasant, domestic manner while Dwalin waited impatiently for his command to get acknowledged.

”...sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” Dori finished counting the stitches on the third needle before lowering his work and casting Dwalin an apologetic look. ”I'm sorry, Mister Dwalin, I was too focused on counting to properly hear you. What were you saying?”

”I said,” snapped Dwalin, his voice full of exasperation over being forced to repeat himself, ”that I need you to go sit with Thorin, as no-one else is available and as I'll have to go do some investigating: there have been several reported burglaries in the outermost circle – it appears that someone has been leaving _hagûr-fur-sûm_ in the tents in exchange of some winter clothes and other equipment.”

 _Hagûr-fur-sûm._ It had been a long time – several decades, in fact – since Dori had heard someone mentioning the Sacred Gold Coins.

Dwarves were experts when it came to anything precious and any a dwarf could recognize any type of gold with easy precision. _Hagûr-fur-sûm_ , or ”Sacred Gold Coins” as they were known in Westron, were coins minted of the pure, beautiful gold mined from the depths of Erebor herself. The Sacred Coins had their own special quality, sound and scent to them, one that hadn't been detected outside the Home Mountain after that fateful day when the Great Worm had attacked. If there truly had now been Sacred Coins found in the tents in the outermost circle, it appeared that someone had snuck some of Erebor's treasures out of the Home Mountain after Smaug's death. And since _only_ the members of the Company had been in the treasury after Smaug's death, the amount of suspects was quite defined.

With a resigned sigh, Dori put away his knitting. He opened his mouth to ask the inevitable question, but Dwalin beat him to it.

”No,” the warrior said with a curt shake of his head, ”It wasn't Nori – I've already interrogated him. Rather, it appears that our missing burglar, Baggins, has been doing some burglarizing in the outermost circle, leaving Sacred Coins in the tents in exchange of water skins and worn trousers, of all things. Probably doesn't quite understand the true value of those coins, our hobbit.”

Dori climbed quickly off the bed, smoothing down his clothes to appear more presentable.

”You think,” he then said, ”that Mister Baggins has finally made an appearance?”

”Not as much of an 'appearance' as a bit of a crime,” grumbled Dwalin, fiddling a bit with the wedge of his axe. ”Or rather, several crimes. No-one saw him, but – or perhaps for that exact reason – I don't think it could have been anyone but him. If Baggins is going around stealing, he has to be pretty desperate for these supplies, and it is possible that he will try to leave the camp once he has gathered all the supplies he believes he will need. I'm getting tired of 'this little situation', as _Ironfool_ keeps calling it, and I want Baggins found before Thorin becomes aware enough to realize what's going on. I'm going to go and see if I can find Baggins before he leaves and I want someone to be with Thorin while I'm gone in case he needs protecting.”

”We really shouldn't be keeping information from Prince Thorin, Mister Dwalin!” hissed Dori, frowning at Dwalin with disapproval. ”He is our (soon-to-be) king and he has the right to know if someone has been trying to execute one of his friends in his good name!”

”We'll tell Thorin everything once things have been sorted,” said Dwalin gruffly, evading Dori's accusing glare in a way that made Dori suspect that the warrior wasn't comfortable at all with lying to his king. This didn't quell his anger one bit and for a while Dori simply pointed a trembling finger at Dwalin in a very accusing manner.

”Well I never!” he eventually managed. ”I, for one, _refuse_ to _lie_ to my king and friend! If Prince Thorin asks, I _will_ tell him the truth and only the truth.”

”By all means,” said Dwalin, leveling Dori with a dark look. ”You can do that – if you want Thorin to die, that is: if Thorin finds out about the executions and about Baggins having gone missing, he _will_ try to get up and he's not yet in any a condition to try to do that – he's currently unable to hold a spoon on his own, for _grûcks_ sake! You might as well take a sword, Dori, and kill him yourself if you're so bent on agitating him and prompting him to leave the bed when he's not yet well enough to do so.”

Dori and Dwalin glared at each other for a long while. It was Dori who looked away first, wringing his hands as he always did when he was particularly unsettled or anxious.

”I really shouldn't go sit with Prince Thorin,” he eventually, reluctantly said, uncomfortable with the whole situation. ”By now, Mister Dwalin, after all those times you've interrogated me of Nori's whereabouts, you must be aware that I'm terrible at lying. You know that my eye begins to twitch when I lie and I would surely give everything away - I would surely cause Thorin's death!”

”You won't,” Dwalin snorted. ”Thorin isn't exactly at his most observant state at the moment. He shouldn't become too suspicious, no matter what you say to him, or how much your eye keeps twitching.”

”Besides,” Dwalin added, ”Thorin is exhausted enough to sleep very late and Bifur will come to relieve you before noon, so what are the chances of Thorin waking up on your watch!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dori's point of view was interesting to write, although I did consider not writing this chapter at all and just continuing with Bilbo's pov. I chose to write Dori's pov mainly because it should shed some light on the behaviour of the rest of the Company f. ex. in the scene where they're standing at the foot of the warg hill.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos!


	7. Bilbo: Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bilbo wished that the dwarves would soon come to a conclusion that there were no hobbits to be found in Lake-town."

_Day Five_

By now, most of Lake-town had burnt down beyond repair and the only buildings that still could be more or less perceived were the ones that had collapsed into the lake and thus had been spared from the hottest of flames. Even those buildings were now nothing but smoking ruins, black but for the snow that covered the parts above the water. Many men were breaking the ice around the fallen buildings with shovels while others were diving into the freezing cold water to save what little could be saved from the belongings below the surface.

Bilbo was walking in the midst of men, doing his best not to collide with anyone or to fall into the icy lake. He had tried to keep his wounds clean and bandaged, but despite of all his efforts the wound on his temple had got inflamed as had several of the gashes on his legs and feet. He was well aware of the fact that he was running a fever due to the infections, but there was currently very little he could do about that. Eru, he couldn't even take the Ring off his finger and ask if anyone would help him, as Dwalin had arrived in Lake-town a few hours after him and Bilbo couldn't risk running into the dwarf while visible. The people of Lake-town hadn't been particularly welcoming to the arriving dwarves, but neither had they yet asked them to leave, much to Bilbo's disappointment. Now, at noon, Bilbo could still see Dwalin and several of his dwarves in a well-organized search of something, or – more likely – _someone_ with that ”someone” probably being Bilbo himself. Even the engineers with whom Bilbo had come to the town had been ordered to ”keep their eyes open”, that much Bilbo had heard of the short exchange Dwalin had had with them that morning.

If Thorin had ordered Dwalin, of all people, to come after Bilbo, the dwarves had to be quite determined to get Bilbo back to Erebor. It hurt and perplexed Bilbo to see to what kind of great lengths his former friends were prepared to go to get him killed. Did they truly hate him so much that they couldn't just let him leave? For all they knew, Bilbo might never even reach the Shire, he might well die in the wilderness! One might have assumed that this kind of a banishment would have been a punishment enough, but it did seem like the dwarves were resolute in making sure that Bilbo would truly die before they would relent and give up the pursuit.

Chewing his bottom lip worriedly, Bilbo wondered how far Dwalin would be ready to follow him. To the edge of the Mirkwood? To the Misty Mountains? To Bree? On Bilbo's _doorstep_?

Well, if Dwalin wanted to follow him, it was Dwalin's loss, not Bilbo's, Bilbo decided with a flash of temper. Straightening his back, he reminded himself that he was not only a Baggins of Bag End but also a Took, which was an excellent combination as far as he was concerned. Unfortunately for the dwarves, he wasn't planning on dying any time soon, he was determined to stay alive, to _live_. Bilbo certainly wouldn't give up without a fight, thank you very much!

A Took and a Baggins of Bag End though he may have been, Bilbo was still above all else just a simple hobbit, and as his simple hobbit feet were unfortunately distinct in these parts of the world, he tried not to leave any clear footprints for the dwarves to find – it certainly wouldn't do for Dwalin to spot a trail of hobbit footprints in the snow now, would it! So, as he walked around the remains of Lake-town, Bilbo stayed on the stamped paths and avoided carefully stepping on newly fallen snow. This naturally restricted the area where he could walk, which, in turn, made it easier for the dwarves to come close to him every once in a while as he couldn't really move further away to avoid them. Dwalin had unknowingly come uncomfortably close to finding Bilbo four times already in less than two hours and only luck had prevented him for stepping on the hobbit who was, by now, only half-awake and stumbling around the ruins of Lake-town cold and scared and sick. 

Thirsty Bilbo was too, as the water in both of his water skins had frozen overnight. Whenever he wanted to drink, he had to hammer the water skins against the hard ground until a piece of ice would split. He would then put that piece of ice into his mouth and suck it until it melted and he could finally satisfy his thirst. Now that there were several dwarves around, however, he didn't dare to make any noise by trying to split the ice and so he had to go thirsty for the time being.

Bilbo wished that the dwarves would soon come to a conclusion that there were no hobbits to be found in Lake-town. He hoped against all hope that Dwalin would soon take his warriors back to the dwarven camp and stop looking for hiding hobbits.

As if summoned by Bilbo's thoughts, Dwalin appeared suddenly and unexpectedly from behind the fluttering flag someone had erected in the middle of all the desolation for reasons unknown to Bilbo. The path on which Bilbo was currently standing was narrow, and while he had been walking forward, a few conversing men had come to walk behind him, unaware of him, and now Bilbo was stuck there between the men and a rapidly approaching Dwalin. As he couldn't well step away from the path, as the last thing he needed right now was for Dwalin to see his footprints appearing on the snow as if on their own accord, Bilbo clambered onto a half-burnt wharf that flanked the path partially on one side and wished that he could balance himself there until Dwalin - and the men - had walked pass by.

There wasn't much room there on the wooden wharf and several wild ducks were already occupying most of the surface, their feathers ruffled against the cold, but thankfully they didn't pay Bilbo any mind nor did they draw Dwalin's attention by making a ruckus over Bilbo's appearance. Panting slightly, Bilbo turned his back on the apathetic ducks and focused his attention on Dwalin, hoping that the dwarf would just walk pass by and not to decide to come and feel around the wharf in case of any invisible hobbits. Fortunately Dwalin did just what Bilbo hoped he would do, walking simply pass by, his face grim and tired, his beard full of small icicles that clinked prettily as they hit against each other in the rhythm of the dwarf's steps.

Well, _Dwalin_ walked right pass by Bilbo, but the three men that had walked after Bilbo did not. Instead, they came to a halt right there in front of Bilbo, blocking his way back to the path, completely unaware of the fact that they were doing so. They weren't even looking in Bilbo's direction, as they were all staring after Dwalin who had just went around them and pass by Bilbo. The men had fallen silent upon noticing the dwarf and now their gazes were following Dwalin's every move. Bilbo saw that many a bitter look were sent in the warrior's way.

”One might think,” the tallest of the men said loudly, ”that there would be so much room for dwarves in that blasted mountain now that the dragon isn't there anymore that they needn't to come here to bother us. That's the least they could do after all they have caused: to _stay away_ from here!”

”Yes!” agreed another men. ”Stay away from us!”

”Go back to your mountain, _dwarf_!” the third man shouted, kicking a piece of ice towards Dwalin.

Dwalin came to a halt when the ice hit him in the back. Slowly he turned to look at the three men. Bilbo cursed to himself, as the warrior narrowed his eyes and marched right back to the men, coming to a stand but a few feet from where Bilbo was crouching down on the wharf.

”So short is the memory of men,” Dwalin then declared in his gruff manner, looking at the men with disdain. ”Only just we fought together, Gustav, and now you're already assaulting me – and you didn't even have the balls to do it when I was still facing you but waited like a coward for me to turn my back to you.”

”Well, _dwarf_ ,” snorted the man who had kicked the piece of ice at Dwalin, the one Dwalin had called Gustav, ”you should know better than to turn your back to people.”

”Am I not among comrades, among brothers-in-arms?”

”You are not, _dwarf_ ,” said Gustav, his voice cold. ”You are not welcome in this town anymore, certainly not after all you lot did to us! We should have listened to Bard when he warned us not to allow you to go to the mountain – the only reason why we haven't yet chased you away from here is the way we _are_ now listening to Bard.”

”He has told us not to fight with dwarves,” said the tallest of the men, spitting on the ground, glowering at Dwalin.

”We might have _shorter_ memory than _dwarves_ ,” continued Gustav, ”but we surely learn from our mistakes better than you do. From now on, we will listen to those who have fair warnings to give and never again will we be blinded by greed. Can you say the same of your own people, _dwarf_? Can you say the same of that ball of hair you call your king?”

Dwalin and the three men glared at each other, while Bilbo scarcely dared to breathe in a fear of getting overheard. The atmosphere was tense, but Dwalin refused to look away from the three tall forms looming over him. Instead, he clicked his knuckles and gave the men such a menacing look that Bilbo saw all three of them swallowing hard and taking several more or less hasty steps backwards.

”For the way you've just insulted my king,” said Dwalin, his heavy breathing clearly visible due to the freezing temperature, ”for that, I am most tempted to give you 'a fair warning'. However, as _I_ am not in a habit of fighting against those with whom I've only just faced an army of orcs – and as we dwarrows may have indeed brought some shit upon you in the recent days – I'm going to be merciful and not inflict any pain on you. But let it be known that if you ever again offer insult to my kin and king, I will break one of your frail bones for every syllable you dare to utter.”

The three men studied Dwalin in a calculating manner while Dwalin did the same to them.

”Why are you here, _dwarf_?” Gustav was the one to eventually break the silence. ”Why have you left your camp, your mountain? What is your business among us?”

”My business doesn't concern you,” said Dwalin in such a haughty manner that he suddenly looked almost painfully similar to Thorin and Bilbo could for once catch a glimpse of the familial resemblance between the two warriors, Thorin and Dwalin were not only best friends, after all, but cousins as well.

”It does concern us when your 'business' is happening in our town!” cried Gustav, his words uttered in such a fierce manner that Dwalin was momentarily engulfed in the resulting cloud of breath that his speech created when the moisture of his breathing hit the cold air.

”Do not waste your breath on a dwarf, brother," said the tallest man, placing a hand on Gustav's arm. "We will give him till the nightfall to finish his 'business' here in our town. If the dwarf hasn't left by then and taken his kin with him, we will make them all leave, no matter what Bard says. Any an armed dwarrow is no longer welcome in Esgaroth.”

”Not welcome!” agreed the third man, the youngest looking, the one that had barely said a word while Gustav and the tall man had talked with Dwalin. ”We've had enough of dwarves!”

"That we certainly have, Björn," mused the tall man, giving Dwalin a scathing look.

With that, the three men turned their backs to Dwalin and marched away.

Dwalin glared after them, looking more tired and annoyed than anything else. He let out a sigh, shaking his head, and turned back to the way he had been heading to when Gustav had kicked the piece of ice at him. He hadn't taken one step, however, when he came to a yet another halt. Narrowing his eyes, he looked in Bilbo's direction, not quite at the hobbit, but more at the area around Bilbo's head.

Cautiously, Bilbo glanced behind himself to see what it was that Dwalin was looking. There was nothing of interest there, just the lake and the dozing ducks. Feeling suddenly shaky and even more wary than before, Bilbo swallowed hard. Surely the dwarf couldn't be detecting _him_? He was still invisible, wasn't he.

Silently, Bilbo stood up from his crouching position and took a calming breath, exhaling slowly, willing for his heart to pound in a more quiet manner. Bilbo watched as Dwalin's gaze shifted a bit to follow the small cloud that formed between the two of them, but it still took a few more breaths for Bilbo to realize what exactly it was that Dwalin was looking at. When he finally came to the inevitable realization, his world stopped.

Due to the cold temperature, Dwalin's breathing was visible, as had been the breathing of the three men. Now that the men were gone, Dwalin should have only really been able to see his own breaths, but that obviously wasn't the case, no, no: feeling faint and more than a little bit horrified, Bilbo came to realize that Dwalin was seeing clouds of breath _coming out of thin air_ , breaths that weren't his own, breaths that were forming right there in front of him _without any visible source_.

Which, under the current circumstances, could only really lead to one conclusion.

Before Bilbo could react, Dwalin had reached out a hand and grasped blindly at the air, managing to take a hold of Bilbo's left sleeve.

”Hah!” the warrior grunted as his fingers wrapped around Bilbo's arm and tightened their hold into a firm grip.

It wasn't until now that Bilbo unfroze from his temporary state of shock. He tried to wrench himself free and kicked Dwalin in the stomach, in the groin, anywhere he could reach, but the skilfully made armor protected the warrior from Bilbo's kicks. Dwalin, on his part, had dropped his axe onto the ground and was now waving his free hand about apparently trying to find some other part of Bilbo to grasp while Bilbo did his best to avoid that waving hand. Eventually Dwalin did manage to locate Bilbo's right shoulder and hold on to that tightly.

"Let me go!"

” _Calm down_ , Baggins,” Dwalin answered Bilbo's plea, giving Bilbo a bit of a shake now that his hold was firm and unrelenting.

Due to his inflamed head wound, the shaking made black spots appear in Bilbo's line of vision, and had Dwalin shaken him just for a heartbeat longer, he would have been sick all over the warrior's front. As it now happened, though, Dwalin stopped shaking him just in time for Bilbo to still be able to gather himself and so Dwalin's coat was spared from the vomit.

”Stop struggling,” said Dwalin impatiently when Bilbo showed no signs of calming down and his attempts to break free were only intensifying. ”I don't want to hurt you, but if ya keep on struggling like that, you're bound to get injured.”

Threats of that kind were certainly not needed, as Bilbo was already as terrified as a hobbit could be.

Even in his terror Bilbo knew that he wouldn't be able to escape Dwalin by struggling, the warrior was simply too strong for him. So, while Dwalin said something about ”wanting to just talk” and Dain being ”a miserable git”, Bilbo tried to come up with a plan to free himself. Eventually he did come up with one quite desperate plan and as soon as he had thought of it, he put it in action: Letting out a (mostly) fake cry of pain, Bilbo willed himself to go limp in Dwalin's arms, pretending that he had just lost consciousness. Dwalin let out a surprised curse as he suddenly had to support Bilbo's full weight. He then did – unknowlingly – follow Bilbo's plan by lowering Bilbo down onto the ground in a slow and surprisingly gentle manner, calling Bilbo's name as he did so. Bilbo hoped that Dwalin would, at some point, let go off him for just long enough for him to have time to roll away and escape.

”Baggins? Come on now, Baggins,” Dwalin was saying. ”You better not be dying on me, you hear.”

As Dwalin couldn't see him, Bilbo kept his eyes open and watched cautiously as the dwarf tried to fumble for his throat, covered by a scarf, to feel the pulse. It soon became apparent that Dwalin couldn't find Bilbo's heartbeat, probably due to the cold and the numbness of his fingers. To Bilbo's surprise, this made the dwarf look almost... nervous, _scared_ , even?

”Well, _of course_ your heart is still beating,” Dwalin soon muttered, his gaze flickering from his hands on Bilbo's invisible neck to the clouds of breath around them. ”Of course you're still alive! If yer heart _wasn't_ beating, you _wouldn't_ be breathing and I can clearly see that you're still breathing.”

They could both see the clouds of breath that formed when the moisture of their breathing hit the cold air.

”You simply fainted,” Dwalin concluded. ”That happens. Nothing to worry about.”

The dwarf then lifted both of his hands from Bilbo's form to open the clasps of his coat with the apparent intention of taking the coat off to cover Bilbo with it. This was a mistake, he should have instead reached for the Ring to make Bilbo visible again; as soon as Dwalin's hands were no longer touching him, Bilbo rolled away from the warrior as quickly and quietly as he could, holding his breath to hide his whereabouts.

He probably would have managed to escape hadn't it been for the inflamed wound on his head. As it now happened, the sudden twirling movement was too much for his head, and Bilbo spent the next few terrible moments by screaming as there was nothing but all-consuming stabbing pain in his skull, in his world.

Then everything in his world went dark and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bilbo. His days just seem to get worse and worse.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely people for the comments and for the kudos!


	8. Thorin: Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yet another morning dawned and Bilbo still hadn't come by to visit him."

_Day Five_

Yet another morning dawned and Bilbo still hadn't come by to visit him. Thorin tried not to dwell on that, reminding himself sternly that the hobbit had every right and reason to avoid him. The moment his fingers had wrapped around the hobbit's neck the day before the battle, he had casted a heavy shadow over himself, a shadow of shame, of _dishonour_ , and he deserved all the ire Bilbo had for him. If anything, he should be amazed that Bilbo hadn't yet been by to spit at him, to demand his braids or some other compensation for the way he had been wronged, for the way Thorin had abused him and their friendship.

Despite of feeling unsettled due to Bilbo's avoidance, worried for his nephews, and guilty for all that he had caused in his madness, Thorin was recovering at a steady pace as if Mahal himself was determined to keep him alive. While the healers claimed that his right shoulder would never regain its full mobility, Thorin didn't allow himself to wallow in self-pity, as he would have given both of his arms and legs in exchange of a permanent home and a secure future for his people. It was his duty to put his subjects – his people – first, and while he had shamefully failed in his sacred duty in the course of the last week, he would dedicate the rest of his life to his people, just as he had done all his life prior to the four days before the Battle for Erebor.

And what would some shoulder pain be, anyway, compared to the suffering he had put others through! In all fairness, he should have been punished far more severely. It was telling that not even the loyal members of his Company were able to look him in the eye after his shameful deeds. When his friends had come to see him, one after another, taking turns to sit by his bedside in some kind of rotating shifts, Thorin had noted the way they all had evaded his gaze. None of them had been able to meet his eye, not even Balin, oldest of Thorin's friends in more than one sense.

Thorin was now lying on his cot, contemplating the situation in a drained, slightly detached manner. Bombur – who had been sitting on the wobbly, wooden chair by his bed since the early hours of the morning – was filling the silence with one-sided chatter. Unlike Thorin, Bombur found no comfort in silence and didn't seem to appreciate quiet moments, which Thorin had to grudgingly admit wasn't that surprising at all, considering the way Bombur's home – with Bombur's wife, their eight loud children (some of them adopted but all the more loved), and Uncles Bifur and Bofur – was always filled with Sounds of Life.

Whenever Bombur wasn't eating, he was usually talking, and as Bombur had been sitting by Thorin's bedside since the morning without munching a thing, Thorin had been exposed to his chatter for almost four hours already. As a rather private person, Thorin was growing weary of the constant prattle and wished desperately for some soothing silence. Under ordinary circumstances he would have ordered the dwarf to ”be gone, or be silent”, but as Bombur had faced a dragon, an army of elves and men and an army of orcs with him without a word of complaint, he felt that he really had no right – king or not – to give the worthy, loyal dwarf any such mundane orders, despite of the fact that he knew that his order would have been complied without question.

This was why Thorin was now in what he considered to be rather awkward, uncomfortable situation, while Bombur did his best to fill the silence as well as he could.

”I don't mind the whistles or the belching,” Bombur was just explaining, fingering the thick, red braid that hung down his chest like a hairy necklace. ”I find that kind of attention almost flattering, actually, and by now I'm at least mostly used to it, but the admiration does become uncomfortable when someone thinks that it's fine to walk up to me and grab my belly just like that.”

As a highly attractive person by any dwarven standard, Bombur had always got a lot of attention wherever he went. In a camp full of warriors, the insinuations had to be more than a little crude and intrusive, and Thorin made a mental note to ask Dwalin to talk with the dwarves about honourable behaviour in this regard. Harassment of any kind was not acceptable and had to have consequences.

With growing exasperation, Thorin wondered once again where Dwalin had _actually_ gone to. He hadn't seen his friend in more than a day which in itself was worrying as the warrior had always made it his point of honour to not leave Thorin's side when Thorin was ill or injured. Thorin missed his friend, he missed their easy-going communication and Dwalin's steadying presence, and if it made him feel lonely that his best friend had abandoned him to his sick bed for once, he kept it to himself: whatever it was that was keeping Dwalin from being there with him, it had to be something important, otherwise Dwalin wouldn't have left his side in his time of need, of that Thorin was certain.

”Just because my belly is large, round, and well-groomed,” continued Bombur, ”it doesn't mean that I want strangers patting it, and I certainly don't appreciate it when people _grab themselves_ while looking at me eating – I am a married man and a loyal husband, after all, and behaviour like that is not flattering in any way. The same goes for my batters and doughs – one can watch, but one _cannot_ touch!”

Thorin sighed, rubbing his face, but made no comment since it was quite obvious that Bombur still had more to say and wouldn't have welcomed interruptions. And indeed, after taking a deep breath, Bombur kept on talking.

”I do not wish to encourage other people's _urges_. I have always been quite clear about the way I-”

After four hours of listening to Bombur – after for hours of keeping someone company and listening to someone _talk_ – Thorin found that he couldn't concentrate on the words anymore. He was in dire need of some peace and quiet, he needed to energize himself by spending time _alone_ , although even more than that he wished that he could have been able to make himself useful. It went against his very nature to lie still in bed while his kingdom needed rebuilding, while his people needed their king.

In a quite stubborn manner, Balin had refused to give him any work to do and had even taken the pile of reports from under the bed away, insisting that Thorin should focus on recovering before doing anything to ”rebuild reclaimed kingdoms”. Balin had assured him that Dain and he had the council as much under control as simply was possible in any a day and that Thorin shouldn't task himself by worrying. It appeared that Thorin just had to trust Balin and Dain to do what was best for Erebor and his dwarves.

Trust. The word troubled Thorin and he frowned at the ceiling of the tent while Bombur continued his blabbering. Trust. It was because of Trust that Thorin hadn't yet confronted Balin about the apparent fact that various members of the Company – Balin himself included – had all given his inquires about Dwalin's whereabouts contradicting, slightly evasive answers, which had eventually led Thorin to believe that he was being purposefully lied to by his most trusted dwarves.

Dori had first claimed that Dwalin was resting, but then Bifur – not twenty minutes later after having relieved Dori from keeping Thorin company – had happened to mention that he had seen Dwalin aiding Balin with organizing the Gold Counting which, Thorin knew, wasn't a _relaxing_ task in any way. After Bifur had left and Bofur had come to sit with Thorin, the toymaker had mumbled – after Thorin had demanded an answer – that Dwalin had been on patrol outside the camp for the past several hours, while Nori informed Thorin a few hours later that Dwalin was doing ”what he always did – running after thieves that were quicker and smarter than him”. Balin had unknowingly contradicted all these claims after supper by saying – while carefully avoiding Thorin's searching look – that Dwalin had spent the whole day by helping Dain with the clearance of the entrance hall.

These _lies_ combined with Dwalin's continued absence made Thorin almost certain that something highly suspicious was going on behind his back. Despite of their words sounding like lies, Thorin wanted to give his friends the benefit of doubt and the chance to explain themselves on their own time before accusing them of anything, worried and irritable though the waiting was making him. He owed them his trust, at the very least, after all they had been through together, after all they had done for him.

”...and so I told her that belly buttons _certainly_ weren't meant – nor built – for that kind of activity,” Bombur finished whatever it was that he had been saying, shaking Thorin out of his thoughts.

After the red-haired dwarf had stared at him in an expectant manner for a few heartbeats, Thorin realized to mutter, ”oh, indeed?” which fortunately seemed to be enough of a comment, for Bombur nodded emphatically and, without further ado, began to describe all the things that _could_ be done to – or with – one's belly button without risk of bodily injury.

Bombur was soon interrupted, though, (much to Thorin's relief) as the tent flap was swiped aside and Oin marched into the tent carrying a plate full of venison in one hand and his black healer's bag in the other. The healer put the venison onto the bedside table, ushered Bombur out of the tent and turned then to Thorin with an annoyed, hostile expression on his face already in advance.

”I _am_ going to change your bandages,” Oin announced, giving Thorin a suspicious, narrow-eyed look as if assuming that Thorin would have some kind of a reason to put up resistance to an act as reasonable as that.

”Morning greetings to you too,” said Thorin drily, wincing as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Oin lowered his healer's bag down onto the vacated chair and proceeded to arrange pillows behind Thorin's back to make him more comfortable.

”You _are_ going to co-operate,” declared Oin once Thorin was suitably propped up. ”I _will_ change your bandages and I am in no mood to tolerate your whims."

And change Thorin's bandages Oin did, grumbling all the while about stubbornness and infuriating patients. Otherwise he was quite professional, the movements of his hands sure and precise, as he cleansed the wounds and put some kind of equally stinging and stinking ointment on them. Once the wounds were once again covered with clean bandages, Oin sniffed with satisfaction and began to put his equipment back into his bag. He gave another satisfied sniff when it became apparent that Thorin was now more or less able to lift the fork by himself and required no assisting when it came to eating. Thorin demonstrated this fact by eating with gusto and by taking big bites out of his steak.

Thorin yearned to ask after Fili and Kili, but couldn't bring himself to utter the question for he feared what the answer would be. He wished to know if there had been any improvement, but if Oin was to tell him that Fili and Kili's condition was becoming worse, that the boys were even closer to death... Thorin couldn't bear to hear that, selfish though that may have been of him. Fili and Kili's pained cries plagued his every waking moment and his sleep as well, if the nightmares he had been having were anything to go by. Dark thoughts gnawed at him: perhaps his punishment was to live and get better, while his sister-sons died or, worse yet, remained alive only in body while their lost souls wandered in the Halls of the Fading Ones.

His distressed musings had caused his hands to begin to tremble and so a piece of venison dropped from the fork onto his chest and rolled all the way down to his lap. Fortunately Oin didn't notice this, focused on gathering used bandages on his arm as he was, and so Thorin could pick up the fallen piece of meat, use the back of his hand to wipe away the smear it had left on his chest and continue eating as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't momentarily lost the control of the fork – he really didn't want to fight over the control of cutlery again.

Partly to distract himself from his unsettling thoughts and partly because he was curious to see whether Oin, as well, would give him an evasive answer about Dwalin's whereabouts, Thorin gave the healer's sleeve a tug. This was enough to call Oin's attention, and the healer turned immediately to look at Thorin, raising his ear trumpet up to his ear again to hear what it was that Thorin wanted to say.

”Have you seen Dwalin?” Thorin asked, studying Oin's expression carefully to spot any signs of lying. Unlike other members of the Company, Oin, at least, still looked him in the eye.

Oin let out an exasperated grumble and closed his bag with a snap with the hand that wasn't holding the ear trumpet.

”Dwalin is not one of my patients,” he informed Thorin. ”This means that he is not one of my concerns and so his current whereabouts are of little interest to me.”

”What about Bilbo then?” Thorin dared to ask after only a moment of hesitation. ”Do you know what Bilbo is doing or where he is? Has he been helping you to take care of the wounded?”

The stern expression on Oin's face got a slightly softer edge at the mention of the hobbit, but Oin soon shook his head, much to Thorin's disappointment.

”I have not seen neither Dwalin nor Bilbo and I know not what it is that they are doing. At the moment nothing outside the healing tents concerns me, but if I do happen to see Dwalin or Bilbo on my way to one healing tent to another, I might mention the fact that you were asking after them.”

After Thorin had finished his meal, Oin lifted his healer's bag from the chair and took the empty plate from Thorin's hands. With the used bandages dangling on his arm he then gave Thorin one last assessing, unimpressed look and turned to leave.

Just as the healer was about to exit the tent, Thorin opened his mouth to ask after Fili and Kili, but before he had managed to form any a syllable, Oin was already gone. Not that the healer would have heard his question anymore anyway, tucked in his pocket as his ear trumpet already was.

* * *

At noon after Ori had left, Gloin stepped into Thorin's tent. His cheeks had turned red due to the cold outside and he shook snow off his clothes and red beard in a manner that reminded Thorin of canids. Once the dwarf had wiped the melting snow from his bushy brows, he turned his full attention on Thorin though he, too – just like most members of the Company so far – was careful not to meet Thorin's gaze.

”May the ground be steady beneath us today!” came the traditional midday greeting.

”May the ground hear your words and your wishes,” Thorin gave the expected answer to the greeting.

After putting more firewood into the stove, Gloin took his seat on the chair, sighing with contentment, while Thorin fingered the tear on the edge of his blanket.

”Durin's axe, Thorin!” Gloin cried abruptly, slapping his knee. ”You certainly look like you're in need of some entertainment.”

”I do not require _entertainment_ ,” grumbled Thorin. ”To do something useful, that's what I'm in need of.”

”Words of a true king!” Gloin praised him, puffing out his chest with pride as if Thorin's words somehow attributed to him.

”He faces a dragon,” Gloin continued, ”he faces a _dragon_ , reclaims the Long Lost Home and kills the most vile of all orcs with the orc's own weapon – and then he wants to do 'something useful'! Truly, no other king can compare to you, cousin! It is an honour and privilege to call you kin!”

”Likewise,” said Thorin and, if possible, Gloin's chest puffed out even more.

Thorin's words prompted Gloin to recite _Mahal Be Praised_ in Thorin's honour – all hundred and twelve verses of it – and by the time Gloin was finally finished, they were both teary-eyed and deeply moved.

”Indeed, Gloin,” Thorin said in a hoarse voice, ”I know none that compare you when it comes to poetry recitation.”

Gloin blushed and dropped into the chair, spent – he had, at some point, sprung up to his feet with all the emotion the recitation had created in him. The chair wobbled and let out a creak, but neither dwarf paid it any mind.

As often happened when Thorin and Gloin spent time together, their topic of conversation soon turned to their boys. They praised each other's lads generously and then their own ones with equal enthusiasm. It saddened Thorin to note that Gloin was still evading his gaze, but he pushed the matter out of his mind and focused on listening as Gloin described Gimli's latest antics (though Thorin had heard all these tales at least once at some point during the Quest already).

What a coincidence it was that just when Thorin began to tell Gloin of Kili's forging skills, the young Ori burst into the tent, ignoring the guards that tried to stop him. The guards grasped him, both of them red-faced and visibly embarrassed for having allowed such a scrawny youth to pass by their brawn. Thorin waved the guards away and, hesitantly, they let go off Ori and exited the tent.

As soon as he had his breath back, Ori began to speak.

”Kili has awakened!” he cried, eyes sparkling. ”Kili is _awake_ , Th- Your Highness!”

”Kili has come to?” Thorin croaked out.

”Yes!” Ori nodded, grinning. ”He has, he has! He just opened his eyes and... _Oh, Durin!_ ”

Ori let out a breathless chuckle and ran a hand through his hair.

Thorin opened his mouth but no sound came out. His heart was pounding in his chest and he felt faint with relief. _Kili had woken up_. Kili. Had. Woken. Up.

”Such a strong lad, such a strong lad,” Gloin was saying approvingly, leaning back in his chair and stroking his long beard. ”Though Bombur will surely be devastated – he bet ten gold coins that it would be Fili who would first regain consciousness and so he now owes me and Nori ten gold pieces each.”

Ori resembled Dori quite a bit when he gave Gloin a disbelieving, scandalized look.

”You _made bets_ on Fili and Kili's condition, on their _lives_?”

Before Ori had managed to finish his sentence, Thorin had already thrown his covers aside. Now, with his back turned to Gloin and Ori, his bare feet hit the cold ground. Holding his right arm firmly against his chest to ease the pain the movement caused in his torso, Thorin bent down to pick up his boots, ignoring the way Ori and Gloin began to protest immediately against him trying to get up.

”I really didn't mean for you to leave bed, my lord,” said Ori, timid once more, wringing his hands. ”I only came to tell you the news because I thought that it would ease your mind to know.”

”It's understandable that you want to go see the lad, Thorin,” tried Gloin, reaching out over the bed to take a hold of Thorin's elbow, ”but you are not well enough to get up yet, you _must_ still rest! Lay back down, cousin.”

”Kili has awakened,” grumbled Thorin, wrenching himself free from Gloin's hold while struggling to put on the boots. ”Mahal has given him back to me! Now there is nothing or no-one that can keep me from going to see my injured sister-sons.”

Even though there was nothing or no-one that could keep Thorin from going to see Fili and Kili, Gloin and Ori both did their best to persuade him to lay back down with the promise that they would go see the boys in his stead.

”You can't yet even stand without swaying!” observed Gloin, trying to pull Thorin back towards the cot. ”This is madness, Thorin, you're straining yourself too much – lay down before you cause yourself further injury.”

Thorin ignored Gloin's advice and ordered the dwarf to release him which Gloin immediately – but quite reluctantly – also did. With a pained look upon his face, Ori muttered something about going to get Balin as he turned around and ran out of the tent. Thorin followed in his step, though at a much slower pace.

Some time later – posed against the sturdy tent pole in the middle of the tent, sweating and panting and hanging from the pole with both hands as his knees threatened to give out underneath him – Thorin had to call for the guards and give them the order to aid him with going to Fili and Kili's tent, as he realized that he would never reach his destination unaided. Gloin muttered with discontent the whole time, following after them, refusing loudly to help Thorin anywhere but _back to the bed_.

It was even colder outside than Thorin had presumed and he shivered when the wind embraced him eagerly and without mercy. The snow crunched under their steps and the cold seeped into Thorin's boots to lick his toes. Most dwarves at the clearing were focused on their chores and didn't appear to notice Thorin's hunched figure from between the two bulky guards, a fact that relieved Thorin more than he cared to admit, as he didn't want to appear weak before his people. Still, by the time they reached Fili and Kili's tent, the one thing that he had to admit at least to himself was the fact that his actions might have been somewhat rash; he really should have at least put on a shirt before leaving his tent, that much he was now shivering.

Oin wasn't happy at all to see Thorin, Gloin, and the two guards, but to Thorin's surprise, the healer's indignation wasn't aimed at him for once. Instead – as soon as he had helped Thorin onto the chair between Fili and Kili's beds and had covered Thorin with a warm blanket – Oin dismissed the guards and rounded on his brother, calling Gloin a fool for ”letting the patient leave the bed” which resulted in an argument, signed with sharp gestures in Iglishmêg rather than shouted in Khuzdul, most likely for Fili and Kili's sake.

Thorin paid no mind to their argument, for his attention was entirely focused on his two nephews, one of whom still hadn't come back to him. Fili laid on Thorin's right far too still and silent, but his breathing was comfortingly steady. For someone who had only recently been gravely injured, he didn't look too bad at all and Thorin assumed that all the marks of his injury were hidden beneath the blankets. Kili, on the other hand, looked tired and ill. His face was white with a hint of grey and there were dark circles under his eyes. In contrast, the cut on his cheek was bright red, though also thankfully free of inflammation, at least as far as Thorin could tell.

Thorin tucked a lock of coal-coloured unruly hair behind Kili's ear. Feeling the gentle touch, Kili frowned and opened his eyes. Upon recognizing his uncle, his gaze sharpened and he studied Thorin cautiously, almost warily. Thorin swallowed hard and tried to give Kili a reassuring smile, though the final outcome probably looked more pained than he had intended.

”Fear not, sister-son, for I am healed,” Thorin told Kili, his voice soft. ”Gold Lust no longer blinds me. I now see the error of my ways, I now see how I have wronged those of whom I care. The Dragon Sickness left me when- when I heard what had happened to you and your brother.”

Kili's eyes lost some of their sharpness and a sigh of relief left his lips. While he blinked drowsily up at Thorin, his hand sneaked from under the blankets and soon Kili wrapped his surprisingly warm fingers around Thorin's fist. He squeezed gently until Thorin swallowed, unclenched his fist and took a hold of the offered hand. Neither one of them said anything for the longest of moments, they just hold hands, sharing the sense of relief of seeing the other alive.

_I could have lost you. I almost did lose you._

Thorin tried to find something to say, but he couldn't quite put his feelings to words, and so it was Kili who spoke first.

”You were right, Uncle,” he said in a quiet, hoarse voice, turning his head to the side to look pass Thorin at Fili's still form.

”What about?”

Kili's chin trembled a bit.

”Fili and I know nothing of the world,” he whispered, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Thorin remained silent, blinking back his own tears.

Oin and Gloin's argument came to an end just then, as Oin shooed his brother out of the tent. Grumbling to himself about irresponsible brothers and allowing stubborn, injured, _foolish_ dwarves to cause harm to themselves, Oin then turned to Thorin and Kili with his arms akimbo. After one look at their joined hands and the expressions on their faces, he let out a half sigh, half grunt, and shook his head.

”Durins,” he muttered, throwing his hands up - but didn't try to force Thorin to leave Kili's side. Instead, he fetched another blanket and helped Thorin into a more comfortable position with the help of several pillows. While Thorin's feet were lifted onto a stool and while Oin tucked him under two blankets, Kili never let go off his hand and, if anything, only tightened his hold.

”You may stay until I say otherwise,” promised Oin, ”but when I deem you too tired to stay, you _must_ go, Thorin. Lest you may well hinder your progress of getting well.”

With one last scowl, Oin went to arrange his potions and ointments in the back of the tent.

After Thorin had sat still, holding Kili's hand for long enough for his arm to get tired, Kili surprised him by suddenly asking for food. Thorin immediately asked Oin to go get Kili the best food the cooks had to offer, to which Oin answered by giving him a cool look and putting a cork on the green bottle which contents he had been sniffing. Oin still did send one of the younger healer's to the nearest cooking area and soon the beardless lad came back with a steaming bowl of porridge.

It was fortunate indeed that Thorin was once again able to lift a spoon by himself, as he could now assist Kili with eating. Eating seemed to lift Kili's spirits considerably, and soon Kili was munching the ham in his porridge in his usual loud manner, talking with his mouth full, asking after the rest of the Company, and wondering whether Thorin had noticed that he had forgotten to put his shirt on when he had left his tent. Thorin didn't tell Kili of the way Bilbo was avoiding him and simply said that the others were busy with the aftermath of the battle and with the rebuilding that had already begun, and Kili was too delighted to hear all that to go into details.

”It's good to see you awake,” Thorin said after Kili had emptied his bowl.

”It would be even better if all three of us were awake,” said Kili, glancing at Fili. ”Still, I'm glad that we're all alive, at least. Though I suppose I wouldn't have minded meeting Uncle Frerin.”

”You'll meet him one day,” promised Thorin, ”but hopefully not for a long while yet. We can go see his chambers, though, when your brother gets better. Assuming the Slug didn't destroy them, of course.”

* * *

Thorin spent the rest of the day by Kili's bedside, ignoring Oin's first five orders to go back to his own tent. He would have ignored the sixth order as well, hadn't Ori come to the tent just then, a worried-looking Balin right at his heel.

”I'm sorry,” Ori apologized to Oin, looking guilty. ”I- I should have realized that Thorin would try to get up when I told him of Kili. I went to get Balin, as he and Dwalin are probably the only persons Thorin will currently listen to, but he was all the way up in the Guardian Tower and it took me a while to find him there.”

”Well, at least you managed to do one thing right,” grumbled Oin, unimpressed.

While Oin and Ori talked, Balin stepped into between Fili and Kili's bed, his gaze taking in all three Durins, one after another. Fili was still unconscious and, by now, Kili was asleep once more, snoring quietly, drooling on his pillow with his face turned toward Thorin and Fili. Thorin assumed that he himself had to look half dead, considering how much his chest was paining him now that he had been sitting upright for so long.

Balin sighed, giving Thorin a fond but also quite admonishing look.

”And then they ask why my hair is white...” he muttered and crouched down in front of Thorin, giving Thorin's thigh a few pats through the warm blankets. ”Come on then, laddie. We better get you back to your own bed before you collapse and cause Oin even more trouble.”

”I wish to stay here with Fili and Kili,” said Thorin, but Balin didn't listen to him. Instead, the older dwarf hooked an arm under his armpit and lifted him up from the chair with surprising strength. Oin motioned Ori to go help Balin which the lad did too and between Balin and Ori they managed to get a weakly resisting Thorin walking towards the entrance, while Oin remained behind to look after Fili and Kili.

The night sky was almost black with all the clouds, but there were several torches lighting the clearing in front of the royal tents and the snow that covered the clearing shone in torch light like mithril, or like someone had sprinkled tiny diamonds on it. There were only a few dwarves in sight, many of them guards, as most dwarves had already retired to their tents. Thorin could see feeble lights shining from some of the tents and he considered the sight quite welcoming and warm, despite of the freeze all around him.

It was just as cold outside as it had been when Thorin had first left his own tent, but now there were the two blankets protecting him from the cold and so the wind didn't feel quite as biting as it had the last time, though Thorin still shivered. His visit to Fili and Kili's tent had exhausted him – even though he certainly didn't regret visiting his boys – and he had to lean most of his weight on Balin, for his legs were unsteady underneath him. 

As chance would have it, Thorin happened to glance up from his wobbly feet just as _Dwalin_ appeared from behind the water barrels that had been placed in the middle of the clearing. With his shadow long and flickering due to the torches, Dwalin was walking straight towards them with some kind of a large bundle in his arms, and Thorin halted on his steps to wait for his cousin, his best friend. He was relieved to see Dwalin, for he had been worried over the warrior's unexplained disappearance.

Only, Dwalin's pace slackened as soon as he noticed Thorin standing there outside Fili and Kili's tent. Even from the distance Thorin could see Dwalin clenching his jaw and sending an unreadable look in Balin's direction, even as he hugged the bundle closer to his chest.

” _W-Who_ is Dwalin carrying?” asked Ori slowly.

Why Ori thought that it was a person that Dwalin was carrying, Thorin couldn't tell – to him, it looked like Dwalin was carrying some kind of a sack – and he glanced at the scribe with curiosity. The hand Ori had placed on his arm was trembling and the boy was staring at Dwalin with such horror on his face that Thorin was momentarily taken quite aback. Balin didn't seem to be faring much better, for he had paled considerably upon noticing his brother, and the arm he had hooked under Thorin's armpit was squeezing Thorin in a painful manner. It wasn't until now that Thorin noticed that instead of urging him towards his own tent, Balin and Ori had come to a full stop and were now both staring at an approaching Dwalin.

” _Bilbo!_ ” a voice cut through the air and a blur of something grey burst out of a nearby tent.

After a bit of squinting, Thorin recognized the blur to be Bofur who had apparently just been preparing to go to bed, as he was now only wearing his grey night garments. Barefooted, Bofur ran through the snow straight to Dwalin and looked down at the bundle, hurrying to walk by Dwalin while beginning to talk to the bundle in a soft, soothing manner. By now, Thorin was feeling the same trepidation he had heard in Ori's voice.

As Dwalin came close enough, Thorin froze as he saw that it truly _was_ a person that Dwalin was carrying, and not just any person but Bilbo Baggins. An unconscious Bilbo Baggins. An unconscious _Bilbo_ , their hobbit, their burglar, the friend Thorin had missed dearly for several long days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people have wondered the meanings of the Khuzdul words I've used in this story. I have to admit that I've made up most of those words, so they don't really have any real meanings - the meanings are up to the reader's imagination.
> 
> Once again, thanks for the comments and kudos!


	9. Dwalin: Days Three and Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dwalin felt quite torn between his duties."

_Day Three_

One lonely tear ran down Thorin's cheek even though Dwalin could tell that his friends had already fallen asleep. It was easy for Dwalin to understand the tear, for it had had to be a great relief for Thorin to hear that Fili and Kili were both faring far better than could be expected. Against all odds, it did look like all three Durins would survive, that they _would_ keep on living, and if Dwalin had shed a few tears of relief himself after having realized that, it was no-one's business but his own. Life without Thorin and his lads would have been dull and empty, to put it mildly, and Dwalin was immensely grateful for the way he wouldn't have to face a future without his best friend.

In a rather awkward but gentle manner, Dwalin wiped the tear from Thorin's cheek and then casted a quick glance around the tent to make sure that there had been no-one to witness his momentary display of affection. It was one thing to be (occasionally) soft of heart and another to let others know of it. He cared little of what people thought of him, but it wouldn't do for anyone outside his circle of Trusted Ones to get the impression that he was anything but a package of brawn ready to terminate any a threat aimed at the Durins. 

With a sigh, Dwalin smoothed down Thorin's blanket and then reached out and took one of the reports from under the cot, eyeing the parchment with frustration. He had told Thorin that it was Balin who was in charge of all the things mentioned in the reports, but in reality he had his own share of work to do in the addition of finding Bilbo and protecting Thorin. All his duties were pulling him in different directions – here by Thorin's side to guard his king and best friend, outside in the cold to look for Bilbo, into the Mountain to do the tasks Balin had had to delegate to him – and as he could only be in one place at a time, Dwalin felt helpless and useless and found himself wanting.

Settling (reluctantly) for focusing on one duty at a time, Dwalin sat there by Thorin's bed for several hours, well prepared to fight anyone who would dare to enter the tent with ill intentions, though – apart from Oin who popped in regularly to check on Thorin – there were no visitors due to the late hour, nor were there any potential assassins. By the fourth time Oin left the tent after making sure that Thorin's condition was still improving, Dwalin had shoved all the reports further under Thorin's cot, as he couldn't read them in the darkness and didn't dare to light a candle in the fear that the sudden light would rouse Thorin who truly did need his rest.

If Dwalin hadn't learnt to appreciate peaceful moments through the hard way in his long years – the rare moments when nothing pressing happened – he would have soon grown bored by simply sitting in the darkness. Fili and Kili were still young and naive enough to call these moments of peace ”dull”, and whenever a peaceful moment occurred, they grew quickly bored. Fili and Kili welcomed action and adventure, and Dwalin remembered that he, too, had once eagerly awaited for his first battles, but decades of trying to survive in the wilderness had hardened him and nowadays he welcomed any form of peace and silence as eagerly as he had once welcomed any an opportunity to prove his worth.

Unfortunately, Dwalin's rare moment of peace was cut short (as his peaceful moments always were), when Rea Copperbeard, daughter of Gilea, the head of Dain's guards, entered Thorin's tent and informed Dwalin that someone had apparently stolen _Sacred Gold Coins_ from Erebor's treasury, as several of them had just been found in the outermost circle. Dwalin was a bit taken aback by these news, as he couldn't think of a single dwarf who would dare to take Sacred Coins out of the Mountain – the coins _belonged to_ the Mountain, after all.

”I would have dealt with the situation myself, sir, as I know that you're reluctant to leave this tent,” Rea said apologetically, glancing at Thorin, ”but since only the members of Thorin Oakenshield's Company have been in the treasury so far, I thought you might like to confront whoever it is that took those coins yourself...”

Dwalin would have indeed prefered to stay with Thorin in case the wounded dwarf woke up and was in need of something, but he had to admit that if one of his friends had been leaving _Hagûr-fur-sûm_ lying around, he needed be there to question their motives himself – while Thorin was unable to do his part as their leader and while Fili and Kili were unable to take his place, it was Dwalin's duty as Thorin's Most Trusted Warrior to be in charge of the Company, for a company he still considered them to be, no matter that the Quest was already over.

Grudgingly, Dwalin trusted Thorin's protection in Rea's hands and went to question his prime suspect.

While Dwalin had been sitting in Thorin's tent, it had stopped snowing. The moon was now peeking from behind the heavy clouds and the whole camp looked calm and serene in an almost ominous manner. Newly fallen snow had covered most of the stamped paths dwarves had made during the day and Dwalin had to now plough his way towards the area where he new he would find the thief he was looking for.

And yes, on the cooking area number three, there stood a shivering Nori who was just preparing to leave to search for Bilbo, blowing on a hot mug of warm juice, warming his face on the steam that floated from the mug.

* * *

”You've got to be kidding me!” was Nori's immediate, indignant answer to Dwalin's demands. ”You seriously think that it was _I_ who stole the Sacred Gold? Come on, Dwalin, I've always known that out of the two sons of Fundin it's Balin who's the sharp end of the sword, but really, you're not as stupid as _this_.”

With his arms folded across his chest, Dwalin glowered at the scowling thief from under his brows. In the course of the Quest, the two of them had surprised each other and themselves by becoming friends, but the mutual annoyance was still there, as was the knowledge that the other shouldn't be underestimated.

Back in Ered Luin, Dwalin had often had the unthankful task to try and catch Nori after the red-haired dwarf had committed one crime or another. While Nori's crimes had never been particularly serious, they had been all the more numerous, and so, while Dwalin and Nori hadn't exactly been on friendly terms before the Quest, they had been forced to see each other often enough to get to reluctantly know one another. It was because of this dubiously gained knowledge that Dwalin could now tell that Nori was speaking the truth when he claimed to be innocent.

”Believe me, mate,” Nori said, taking a sip from his mug, ”for once in your life time it's not me that you're looking for.”

After Nori had pointed out that he was now one of the wealthiest beings in existence due to having reclaimed Erebor with Thorin and that he thus had no longer any need whatsoever to _steal_ anything (and that had he wanted to steal the coins for sport, he would have _hidden_ them afterwards and not just abandoned them in some tent or another in such a blatant manner), Dwalin had to sigh in resignation and rub his face.

Now that he believed Nori innocent of _this_ particular crime, it was easy enough for him to draw conclusion that it was their hobbit burglar who had taken the Gold Coins and left them in the outermost circle: None but a member of the Company could have taken the coins from the treasury, as only the members of the Company had yet been there. Due to the current circumstances, Bilbo was really the only member of the Company with any kind of a believable reason to go around stealing and so it did look likely that it had been Bilbo who had taken the coins. As he thought all of this, Dwalin felt like strangling Dain for causing so much trouble.

Dwalin offered Nori his earnest apologies as was honourable to do after accusing someone of a crime they had not committed. Then, after making sure that at least one member of the Company would be by Thorin's side at all times while he was gone, Dwalin went to investigate the unexpected appearance of Sacred Gold – and to look for their burglar, hoping that this new lead would take him to the missing hobbit.

* * *

After having made a list of all the items that Bilbo had taken from the outermost circle in exchange of the Gold Coins, it didn't take that long at all for Dwalin to conclude that Bilbo had been equipping himself for leaving the shelter of the camp. It was impossible to say whether the hobbit had yet managed to leave or whether he was still hiding somewhere in the camp, but the mere chance that Bilbo had already left and gone to the wilderness on his own was reason enough for Dwalin to upgrade the situation status from _jûd_ to _dulvûd-ezum_ , which meant that the situation had just turned from dire to critical indeed.

On his way back from the outermost circle Dwalin pondered how to best approach the situation. He re-organized the search in his mind and decided to place Nori's dwarves at the edge of the camp instead of allowing them to go to the Eastern parts of the battlefield where they had originally been headed to to continue the search. Dain's dwarves he would take with him wherever he himself would go, Dwalin decided, as he didn't trust all of those warriors and wanted to keep an eye on them.

As the unwelcome thought of Dain grazed his mind, Dwalin's contemplative expression turned murderous. The few dwarves that were still up and about hurried to scatter out of his way after one glance at his face, but he paid them no mind, focused on the grave situation as he was.

Dwalin was just passing by the section four, the area reserved for ponies and wagons, when the sight of certain footprints on the snowy ground drew his attention. He immediately came to a halt and went to crouch down by the footprints, lighting them with the torch he was carrying. As he looked closer, his heart began to pound with excitement, as he could easily confirm the fact that they weren't just any footprints but distinct footprints of a _hobbit_. And as there was to his ken only one hobbit in this part of the world, it was easy enough to conclude who had left these footprints.

Silently, Dwalin thanked Mahal for not allowing the snow to cover Bilbo's tracks. As if by a miracle, Bilbo had left such a clear trail of his footprints on the snow that an experienced tracker like Dwalin had now no trouble at all to follow it. The footprints went here and there, the trail winding between wagons and carts and ponies, until Bilbo's footprints crossed paths with a cart rut, disappearing. Standing on the cart rut, Dwalin frowned at the evidence before him – it didn't take much power of deduction to draw the conclusion that Bilbo had climbed onto the cart that had once stood there. Hopeful, Dwalin allowed himself a small smile: after finding out where the cart had gone off to, finding Bilbo might be that much closer.

”You!” Dwalin called out to one of the dwarves that were in charge of the ponies. ”There was a cart here not too long ago. Do you know where it is now?”

Continuing to feed carrots to a skittish pony, the old dwarf spared Dwalin but a glance.

”It's the cart of our engineers,” the dwarf knew to tell. ”Three of the engineers left to Lake-town a few hours ago, so I suppose the cart is in Lake-town, or on its way there.”

Half an hour later, Dwalin and a bunch of Dain's warriors were also on their way to Lake-town.

* * *

_Day Five_

Dwalin and Dain's warriors had been searching Lake-town for over a day now and there still had been no signs of Bilbo, apart from the occasional, barely visible footprints that always faded away after Dwalin had followed them but for a few yards. It was as if Bilbo was doing his best to avoid leaving any footprints for dwarves to find, but even though his attempts to locate Bilbo had so far been in vain, Dwalin was all the more determined to find Bilbo Baggins not only for Thorin's but for Bilbo's own sake as well.

Still, Dwalin felt quite torn between his duties. If something irreversible happened to Bilbo because he hadn't found the hobbit in time, he would never forgive himself; if something irreversible was to happen to Thorin while he was away, he would never forgive himself. He worried for both of his friends and their well-being weighed heavily on his mind. Where was Bilbo? Surely Thorin's condition was still improving? How had Thorin reacted when Dwalin hadn't come to see him in more than a day?

Out of necessity, Dwalin had allowed Dain's warriors a few hours of sleep, but he knew that he himself wouldn't be able to rest, not now when there was a chance of Bilbo slipping through his fingers for good at any given moment: If they couldn't find Bilbo in Lake-town, if Bilbo managed to cross the lake and escape to the wilderness, it became so much less likely that the dwarves would find him. Yes, they could always go to the Shire to wait for the hobbit to make an appearance, but that was assuming that Bilbo wouldn't die in the wilderness and Dwalin wasn't confident at all that a lone hobbit would survive in the wilderness by himself for that long, no matter if the hobbit happened to be someone as capable as Bilbo Baggins.

Even though Dwalin was determined to find Bilbo, he felt uncomfortable disturbing the mourning people of Lake-town with his presence, as he knew all too well what it was like to lose one's home. It didn't matter that the town had looked, to Dwalin's eye, almost as dismal and unwelcoming as its ruins now did, nor did it matter that the stench of tar and fish guts could both still be detected in the sharp frost from under the lingering smell of smoke, for the people of Lake-town called this place their home and this bleak area was as dear to them as Erebor's grand halls were to Dwalin. Mahal, these people had cared about their wooden, rickety wharves enough to give them names!

Dwalin was now marching along the blackened, icy planks, a peculiar type of a road the people of Lake-town still insisted on calling Perch Lane. Due to having spent so many hours outside in the bitter cold, his beard was heavy with icicles, but otherwise Dwalin felt hot and sweaty after being on the move for so long. Women and men gave him suspicious looks as he passed by them, and even though he wasn't in a habit of harming children, the adults now pulled their bairns into their arms to keep the little ones out of his way. Unlike the first time they had met the Company, the people of Lake-town now considered dwarves dangerous, they seemed to think that dwarves were trouble and danger, the Premonitions of Destruction.

As was the tradition, a red flag had been erected in the honour of those who had died in the flames and the following, bloody battle. The flag now fluttered in the wind, its red colour vivid and a startling contrast to the mix of snow and soot – all shades of white, black and grey – that surrounded it. When Dwalin shifted his gaze from the fluttering flag to look forward, he saw three men walking towards him along the narrow Perch Lane. The men were all tall and tanned, having likely spent the majority of their life outside, and related they were too, judging from their similar features, their narrow faces, long noses and big brown eyes. Dwalin could recall that he had fought alongside these three men during the battle, that he had even managed to save their lives a few times, but it still took him a moment to put names to their faces – Gustav, Kevin and...something, Bör, perhaps?

Gustav, Kevin and Bör fell silent as they noticed him and he gave them an acknowledging nod. Brothers-in-arms though they may have been, but this didn't mean that Dwalin currently had the time to stop to chatter, keeping a close eye on his surroundings in case of Bilbo as he was, and so he didn't pay the men too much mind. Instead, he allowed his gaze to take in the untouched snow and the half-burnt wharf that flanked the path partially on one side. Dwalin considered – in passing – searching the wharf in a closer manner, but disregarded this idea as soon as he noticed that there were birds on the wharf. He didn't know much of birds, but surely the creatures would have looked more disturbed if an invisible being had been hiding in their midst, and so he considered it unlikely that Bilbo was there on the wharf.

Dwalin marched right pass the wharf and the three men, even though he was aware of the way the men came to a halt in a rather expectant manner as if wishing to exchange a few words with him. Had Dwalin been more considered and polite, he might have given the men his midday greetings or something alike, but as it happened, he wasn't bothered with such niceties, especially not now when he was becoming more and more desperate to find his missing (hiding) friend.

The men, it seemed, weren't as content with staying silent: Dwalin had managed to take but a few steps when Kevin was already speaking, his tone of voice dark and slightly mocking.

”One might think,” Kevin was saying, ”that there would be so much room for dwarves in that blasted mountain now that the dragon isn't there anymore that they needn't to come here to bother us. That's the least they could do after all they have caused: to _stay away_ from here!”

”Yes!” Dwalin heard the young Bör agreeing in his high-pitched voice. ”Stay away from us!”

”Go back to your mountain, _dwarf_!” shouted Gustav whose life Dwalin had saved at least four times during the battle.

Grunting with annoyance, Dwalin resigned himself to the fact that humans were a quick-tempered race with extremely poor memory, or at least it looked like that if this was the way they would treat a brother-in-arms. Though, really, what else could be expected of creatures who were considered to be adults at the age of _twenty-five_ – twenty-five-year-old dwarflings still liked to be tucked in, for Eru's sake! (Or at least Fili and Kili had at that age, according to Thorin. Dwalin himself had little experience when it came to children.)

Choosing to ignore the men, Dwalin walked forward with brisk strides. He would have left the scene and continued his search for Bilbo hadn't something blunt unexpectedly hit him in the back. Feeling the impact, Dwalin came to a halt.

Slowly he turned around, taking in the block of ice that lay at his feet before raising his gaze to the three defiant-looking men who stood firmly in place by the blackened wharf. It was obvious that one of his brothers-in-arms had just either thrown or kicked the ice at him – judging from their positions, the most likely suspect was Gustav – and that was such a cowardly offence that Dwalin simply couldn't walk away from it without some kind of a retort. Narrowing his eyes, Dwalin made his mind up and walked right back to the men, coming to a stand but a few feet from them.

”So short is the memory of men,” he said gruffly, looking from one man to the another with disdain. ”Only just we fought together, Gustav, and now you're already assaulting me – and you didn't even have the balls to do it when I was still facing you but waited like a coward for me to turn my back to you.”

”Well, _dwarf_ ,” snorted Gustav, clearly meaning ”dwarf” as an insult, though it hardly was that, ”you should know better than to turn your back to people.”

”Am I not among comrades, among brothers-in-arms?” Dwalin asked pointedly, recalling the way his blade had cut through the orcs that had tried to slay these three men and their kin.

”You are not, _dwarf_ ,” Gustav's voice was cold, but his eyes flickered to the ruins of his hometown with something akin to pain. ”You are not welcome in this town anymore, certainly not after all you lot did to us!”

Ah. Understanding dawned on Dwalin. The three men had lost their homes and many of their friends, and it was, admittedly, all due to the actions of dwarves that the destruction had been brought upon Lake-town. It was no wonder if these men were bitter and angry towards dwarves. In a similar situation dwarves would have surely blamed the men with equal passion, if not even more fiercely.

Weariness spread in Dwalin's bones as guilt and all his long years fell on his shoulders like a bag full of iron, while Gustav continued speaking.

”We should have listened to Bard when he warned us not to allow you to go to the mountain – the only reason why we haven't yet chased you away from here is the way we _are_ now listening to Bard.”

”He has told us not to fight with dwarves,” said Kevin, spitting on the ground, glowering at Dwalin.

”We might have _shorter_ memory than _dwarves_ ,” continued Gustav, his gaze full of pain and bitter anger, ”but we surely learn from our mistakes better than you do. From now on, we will listen to those who have fair warnings to give and never again will we be blinded by greed. Can you say the same of your own people, _dwarf_? Can you say the same of that ball of hair you call your king?”

Upon hearing Gustav's words, Dwalin's first instinct was to reach for his knife and cut the man's hair off for the way he had spoken of Thorin. He would have done that too, hadn't guilt and pity halted the movement of his hand and so Dwalin hesitated, glaring at the men. His gaze took in the black bands around the arms of the three men. It was clear that they were either just coming or just going to a funeral and so it was no wonder if the atmosphere was emotionally charged. Could he truly give such a harsh punishment for something that had been said in an upset state? Wasn't some of the anger the men felt towards dwarves deserved? Without the Company, Lake-town wouldn't have burnt, at least not in a few years (eventually it would have, Dwalin was certain of that, as Smaug would have woken up hungry sooner or later, but the race of men was too short-sighted to understand that).

Still, no matter how much Dwalin pitied these men, he couldn't let an insult towards Thorin slide, and so clicked his knuckles and intensified his glare, causing Gustav, Kevin and Bör to swallow hard. The men took several more or less hasty steps backwards before they even seemed to realize they were doing so.

”For the way you've just insulted my king,” said Dwalin, ”for that, I am most tempted to give you 'a fair warning'. However, as _I_ am not in a habit of fighting against those with whom I've only just faced an army of orcs – and as we dwarrows may have indeed brought some shit upon you in the recent days – I'm going to be merciful and not inflict any pain on you. But let it be known that if you ever again offer insult to my kin and king, I will break one of your frail bones for every syllable you dare to utter.”

The three men studied Dwalin calculatingly while Dwalin did the same to them, making sure to fiddle with the wedge of his axe in a warning manner – mercy was given only once; if another insult was aimed at his king, there would be consequences.

”Why are you here, _dwarf_?” Gustav was the one to eventually break the tense silence. ”Why have you left your camp, your mountain? What is your business among us?”

”My business doesn't concern you.”

”It does concern us when your 'business' is happening in our town!” cried Gustav, his words uttered in such a fierce manner that Dwalin was momentarily engulfed in the resulting cloud of breath that the man's speech created when the moisture of his breathing hit the cold air.

”Do not waste your breath on a dwarf, brother," said Kevin, placing a hand on Gustav's arm. "We will give him till the nightfall to finish his 'business' here in our town. If the dwarf hasn't left by then and taken his kin with him, we will make them all leave, no matter what Bard says. Any an armed dwarrow is no longer welcome in Esgaroth.”

”Not welcome!” agreed Bör who had barely said a word while Gustav and Kevin had talked with Dwalin. ”We've had enough of dwarves!”

"That we certainly have, Björn," mused Kevin, giving Dwalin a scathing look.

With that, Gustav, Kevin and... _Björn_... turned their backs to Dwalin and marched away.

Dwalin glared after them, feeling weary and guilty and annoyed. He let out a sigh, shaking his head, and turned back to the way he had been heading to before the men had assaulted him.

Before he had managed to take one step, however, unexpected movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention and he came to a halt. Looking towards the movement – towards the wharf and the birds – the most peculiar sight greeted him: there, but a few feet from him, small clouds formed as if out of thin air, as if the breathing of an invisible being was becoming visible when the moisture in the breaths hit the cold air.

Under the current circumstances, this could only really lead to one conclusion.

Reacting with the speed the years of fighting had taught him, Dwalin quickly reached out and grasped at the area where he estimated the body of this invisible, breathing being to be. To his delight, his palm touched something coarse and firm and – with a grunt of triumph – he wrapped his fingers around what he could recognize as an arm, tightening his hold into a firm grip to prevent the invisible being – the invincible _hobbit_ , _Bilbo_ – from running away yet again.

Not at all unexpectedly, Bilbo began to wriggle and tried to wrench himself free from Dwalin's grasp. Hadn't it been for Dwalin's armor, the hobbit's kicks would have surely caused pain in several parts of Dwalin's body, and Dwalin dropped his axe onto the ground to try and get a better hold of the desperately struggling hobbit. He managed to locate Bilbo's shoulder and hold on to that tightly.

"Let me go!" Bilbo cried, fear and desperation quite audible in his voice and the sound of it all was almost enough for Dwalin to let go off him by reflex. Instead of loosening his grip, however, Dwalin asked Bilbo to calm down and gave him a bit of a shake which he hoped – in vain – would be enough to still the hobbit so that the two of them could actually talk.

”Stop struggling,” said Dwalin impatiently when Bilbo showed no signs of calming down and his attempts to break free only intensified. ”I don't want to hurt you, but if ya keep on struggling like that, you're bound to get injured.”

His words didn't appear to have any effect on the scared hobbit and so Dwalin tried to calm him down by explaining the situation to him without further ado. He hadn't managed to utter but a few sentences, though, when suddenly Bilbo let out a cry and went limp in Dwalin's arms. Startled, Dwalin cursed and did his best to catch the invisible hobbit and lowered the limp body down onto the ground as gently and carefully as he could.

The sudden turn of events put Dwalin in the battle mode – his senses became sharper, his heart pounded faster, adrenaline poured in his veins. Now that he was no longer focused on preventing Bilbo from running away, Dwalin could smell the stench of an inflamed wound. With trepidation, he tried to rouse Bilbo, swallowing hard as he thought that Bilbo hadn't probably been to see any a healer after the battle. What kind of wounds had the orcs and wargs inflicted on the hobbit during the battle? What kind of wounds had been left untreated for so long?

”Baggins?” he called Bilbo's name. ”Come on now, Baggins. You better not be dying on me, you hear.”

Bilbo didn't answer and his body remained still and limp. Such was Dwalin's shock to find his friend for only for the said friend to lose consciousness that his first reaction was to hurry to feel Bilbo's pulse, even though his fingers were numb from the cold and the act was thus foolish and unnecessary. He managed to locate Bilbo's throat from under the scarf, but there was no heartbeat, not at least one that Dwalin could feel and Dwalin's mouth went dry as he realized that.

Fortunately his training soon kicked in.

”Well, _of course_ your heart is still beating,” he told Bilbo, looking from his hands on Bilbo's invisible neck to the clouds of breath around them. ”Of course you're still alive! If yer heart _wasn't_ beating, you _wouldn't_ be breathing and I can clearly see that you're still breathing. You simply fainted. That happens. Nothing to worry about.”

Dwalin let go off Bilbo and began to open the clasps of his coat in order to cover the hobbit with the warm article of clothing. He had just managed to take the said item of clothing off, when Bilbo let out another, even more piercing scream that startled Dwalin into dropping the coat.

It appeared that Bilbo had either come to while Dwalin had been unclasping his coat and had then tried to escape yet again, or had simply pretended to faint in order to escape, as Dwalin now found him lying a few feet further away, a few feet from the spot Dwalin had initially lowered him down to.

Cursing himself for not doing it as soon as he had first got the chance, Dwalin fumbled for the Ring he knew Bilbo was wearing. It didn't take that long at all for him to locate the warm band of metal. He slipped the Ring off of Bilbo's finger and the hobbit immediately appeared in front of him, becoming visible once more – it was a small consolation, though, as Dwalin only had to take one look at his friend to know that Bilbo's condition was even more serious than he had assumed.

Bilbo was sprawled on his belly, clearly unconscious. The side of his face that wasn't pressed against the snowy ground was caked with dried blood and Dwalin could see an angry wound on his temple. This head wound as well as several of the gashes on Bilbo's legs and feet were red and puffy with yellow, foul-smelling pus, and Bilbo's skin had a sickly, grey-ish shade. With his swallow breathing moving his thin chest, Bilbo looked gravely ill.

”Mahal,” Dwalin swore with feeling. He slipped the golden ring into his pocket for safekeeping and gathered Bilbo's limp body in his arms, mindful of the infected wounds.

The hobbit was wearing the winter clothes that had been reported stolen in the outermost circle back in the camp, but Dwalin still wrapped his warm coat around his friend to give Bilbo one more layer to insulate him from the surrounding cold. The coat was far too big for the hobbit's smaller frame and with his soft, beardless features Bilbo almost looked like a dwarfling barely out of his tweens. The sight clenched something in Dwalin's heart, though he also felt rage building up in him: if Dwalin had his way, Dain Ironfoot would be dead before dawn.

* * *

There was only one healer (alive) in Lake-town and he refused to help dwarves, saying that he was low on supplies as it was, but as soon as Dwalin promised the man two thousand gold coins in exchange of his help, the healer did find them some hot water, ointment and herbs that would help fight infection. Now that he was wealthy, Dwalin could – and would – have paid the man ten times that if only it would have meant that Bilbo would survive and get better. 

Unfortunately, nothing the healer did seem to have any effect on the hobbit whatsoever, though at least the man cleansed the wounds to the best of his abilities.

Once the healer had done what little he could do, Dwalin lifted the still unconscious Bilbo onto the cart of the engineers and ordered all dwarves to leave Lake-town as was the wish of the men. His order was obeyed and so their small convoy left the town.

The three engineers discussed the importance of cranks and pillars with creaking, monotonous voices the whole way back to the camp, while Dwalin tried to bring Bilbo's fever down with cold bandages made out of his spare clothes and snow. Bilbo woke up several times, but in his fevered state he wasn't lucid enough to even recognize Dwalin, believing the warrior sometimes to be his father, sometimes another one of his hobbit relatives.

Instead of the relief Dwalin had assumed he would feel upon finding Bilbo, his concern only grew by the moment.

* * *

By the time they reached the camp, night had fallen and most of the dwarves were deep asleep. The three engineers offered to take Dwalin and Bilbo to their destination with their cart, but Dwalin knew that he could move faster by foot in the cramped camp and so he refused the offer, waving Dain's warriors off as well. The night sky was almost black with all the clouds, but the main road was lighted with torches and so Dwalin could easily make his way to the centre of the camp where he knew he would find Oin and the third, currently empty royal tent that had been pitched there to wait for Bilbo on Dain's orders. Dwalin was thankful for the night, as he didn't want to draw attention and could now carry Bilbo under cover of darkness.

The clearing in the middle of the camp was just as peaceful as the rest of the camp. The water barrels stood there in the centre of it all in torch light like two burly guards and Dwalin went around them, hurrying his steps to reach Oin faster.

He wasn't expecting to see _Thorin_ standing there outside Fili and Kili's tent, but there his friend still was, wrapped in blankets, swaying on his feet, holding on to Balin and Ori who were both clearly doing their best to steady him between them. Upon noticing Dwalin, a tired smile appeared on Thorin's face, but he must have seen something in Dwalin's expression, for the smile slipped off his face and was quickly replaced by bewilderment.

Bilbo let out a quiet whimper and Dwalin hugged him instinctively closer to his chest, clenching his jaw and looking at Balin with disbelief. He wanted to shout at his brother to take Thorin inside immediately, for Thorin clearly wasn't in any condition to be walking around, but he didn't want to startle Bilbo – nor Thorin – by crying out loud. And why had Balin allowed Thorin to leave the tent in the first place!

Now, it was only a matter of moments before Thorin would realize who it actually was that Dwalin was carrying, as both Balin and Ori - seeing Bilbo's state - appeared too shocked to move and to take him inside. They had both gone pale and were now staring at Bilbo in Dwalin's arm as if fearing for the worst.

” _Bilbo!_ ” a voice cut through the air and Dwalin saw Bofur bursting out of a nearby tent. The toymaker wasn't wearing any footwear and his night garments were far too thin for the cold temperatures, but he didn't seem to notice this, as he ran straight to Dwalin, looking down at Bilbo as soon as he reached them.

”Oh, _Eru_ , Bilbo...” Bofur said, his voice as thin as his night garments. ”How did everything go this far? How did- well, now isn't the time for that, I suppose. You just focus on breathing, Bilbo, okay? We're almost in your tent, it'll be warm inside and Oin will help you to get better. You're going to be fine, you'll see!”

Dwalin didn't listen to Bofur's words, though he did hope that they offered the restlessly sleeping hobbit some kind of comfort. He was focused on getting Bilbo into his tent as soon as possible, as well as studying Thorin. It was easy to see the exact moment when Thorin realized who it was that Dwalin was carrying, as his knees gave up underneath him and he would have fallen down onto the ground hadn't it been for Balin and Ori keeping him upright.

”What has happened?” Thorin demanded in a coarse voice, looking from Bilbo to Dwalin with such wide eyes that he briefly reminded Dwalin of Kili.

Instead of answering, Dwalin glanced at Bofur, unable to meet Thorin's gaze.

”Go get Oin.”

The toymaker did as he was asked, while Dwalin headed for the unoccupied royal tent, telling Balin and Ori to take Thorin inside, _for Mahal's sake_.

”I'll come by later, Thorin,” he promised when his friend tried to put up some resistance and follow after him and Bilbo. ”Go to your tent, or you'll fall down and then Oin will have to help _both_ you _and_ Bilbo and that will hinder his efforts to _focus_ on helping _Bilbo_.”

Dwalin didn't wait around to see whether Thorin listened to his words or not. He simply took Bilbo into the third royal tent, entering back first so that the tent flaps didn't hit Bilbo. He had barely managed to lay his friend down onto the cot when Oin entered the tent with Bofur right at his feet, followed soon after by Balin, Ori and the stubborn-as-ever Thorin, because _of course_ Thorin wouldn't listen to reasonable advice in such a situation and had somehow managed to force both Balin and Ori into bringing him to see Bilbo.

The next few hours were spent by caring for Bilbo. Dwalin's duties consisted mostly of adding firewood into the stove and fetching water and other supplies, while Oin treated the wounds and mixed foul-smelling salves that he then rubbed on Bilbo's skin. Bilbo wake up every now and then, but he was hardly coherent and didn't seem to understand anything that was happening around him, even though Bofur and Ori called his name and tried to talk to him. Thorin looked aghast and appeared unable to look away from Bilbo, but he didn't utter a word, and neither did either one of the sons of Fundin.

” _Thorin will want explanations_ ,” Balin signed in Iglishmêk to Dwalin from behind Thorin's back.

” _He will never forgive us for this_ ,” was Dwalin's curt answer which ended the conversation quite abruptly.

* * *

At about midnight, Thorin collapsed, exhausted after having been up and about for so long. Dwalin and Balin carried him into his own tent and tucked him in carefully, both of them feeling sick with guilt and regret over everything that had happened, even though not all of it was their fault.

Thorin looked up at them, and even though he was visibly drawn, his eyes were full of determination, as well as fear and worry.

And that was when the questions began.

”I've been quite busy with arranging the rebuilding, laddie,” Balin answered Thorin's insistent inquiries, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at Thorin. ”I don't really know that much of anything concerning this situation, to be honest. Dwalin knows the situation better than I do. Perhaps he can explain it all...”

Folding his arms across his chest, Dwalin scowled at his brother – the _coward_. Balin had the good sense to flush and look ashamed, at the very least, when Dwalin became the sole focus of Thorin's attention.

”Dwalin?” demanded Thorin, looking at Dwalin in an expectant manner. ”What is going on? Do you know what has happened to Bilbo?”

”Aye,” Dwalin had to reluctantly admit, ”and I'll tell you what I know as soon as _Dain Ironfoot_ has first told you his side of the story.”

Because Dwalin sure as _grûck_ wasn't the one who deserved to bear the blunt of Thorin's initial reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, Thorin's POV.
> 
> T(om )Hanks for the comments and the kudos!


	10. Thorin: Day Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What happened to Bilbo?"

_Day Six_

Dain fidgeted beside Thorin's bed, looking anywhere but at his cousin who was watching him intently. No-one was speaking and the lack of answers was making Thorin grow more impatient and exasperated by the moment. Bilbo's condition had shaken him to the core, and when Thorin had stood by Bilbo's bed looking at the broken body before him, the happiness he had felt after seeing Kili awake had moulded into something else entirely. Thorin now felt worried and _scared_ for his hobbit friend and angry at

( _Whom? Who could he blame for this?_ )

He felt useless and _hated_ being helpless and unable to do anything for Bilbo, anything but pray for him and hope for the best. He was determined to find out what had happened to his friend, he was determined to at least get answers and find whoever it was that was responsible for Bilbo's condition. The need to find out what had happened to Bilbo burnt Thorin's heart with all of its vehemence.

In the distance, a bell rang signaling the beginning of the second hour after midnight. It was still dark and Thorin could see his cousins only due to the two candles Balin had lighted on his bedside table to illuminate the tent. By the light of the candles, Thorin could see that Dain was wearing a striped night cap, a long-sleeved night shirt and short trousers that revealed his lumpy knees as well as his thick, hairy legs. It was obvious to Thorin that Dwalin had hauled the dwarf right out of bed without allowing him to do more than to put his heavy boots on before bringing him here, which in turn told Thorin that – for reasons still unknown to him – Dwalin was quite a lot more upset with Dain than he had initially assumed. Over the course of all his years, Thorin had learnt to trust Dwalin's ability to read people and assess situations and that was why Thorin was now studying Dain with great suspicion. Whatever had happened to Bilbo, Dain had had a great part in it, if Dwalin's behaviour was anything to go by.

Dain himself seemed to feel at least somewhat ill at ease. Despite having had his sleep interrupted, he appeared neither tired nor confused. Instead, the look in his eyes was sharp, knowing and somewhat foreboding and there was a nervous twitch in his neck muscles between his jaw and collarbone, a sight visible only due to the way his braided beard revealed that particular part of his neck. Dain kept shooting slightly pleading looks at Balin who was stroking his beard in that thoughtful manner he got whenever he was particularly unsettled by something. Balin had placed himself between Dwalin and Dain as if to keep the two apart and his gaze flickered from one dwarf to another in a quite weary, wary manner. Dwalin, on his part, stood at attention, clenching and unclenching his fists, his gaze fixed on the wall of the tent, visibly upset despite the way he was trying to keep his face blank.

”Explain,” Thorin boomed for the third time and all three of his cousins winced upon hearing his order.

Balin, Dwalin and Dain all gave him a glance to determine which one of them he was talking to and Dwalin and Balin quickly resumed their original poses after seeing that he was still studying Dain. Dain, on his part, began to fiddle with the sleeves of his night shirt. It appeared that he had lost his tongue as well as his nerve. He was swallowing hard and kept opening and closing his mouth in an unbecoming imitation of a gaping fish.

”This lack of answers is trying my patience,” said Thorin when no answers were forthcoming, causing his cousins to wince yet again. ”I don't particularly care which one of you explains the situation to me as long as an explanation is provided _right now_ : what happened to Bilbo?”

”Well, laddie,” said Balin, clearing his throat. ”There was... a misunderstanding.”

For a few moments, Thorin waited Balin to say something more, but the dwarf avoided his gaze and kept simply stroking his beard. Dwalin remained stoic and silent and his gaze never once flickered from the spot on the wall, while Dain shifted on his feet, looking increasingly more uncomfortable.

”A misunderstanding,” Thorin repeated eventually, slowly, letting his gaze move from one cousin to another. ”A _misunderstanding_. One of my friends, a _hero_ is currently _delirious_ due to the fever caused by his _inflamed_ wounds and you think that 'there was a misunderstanding' is explanation enough? Surely you jest, Balin!”

Balin gave a slight wince and offered Thorin something that might have been an apologetic smile, while his brother didn't move a muscle. Dain's gaze flickered wistfully towards the entrance of the tent, but he had the good sense to remain where he stood. None of them said anything, all of them apparently waiting for one of the other two to speak first.

Finally, Thorin lost his patience and banged his fist against the side of the bedside table, giving his cousins a start with the sudden loud sound. The movement strained his already worn body and Thorin was left panting, though not only from the exertion and pain but also from anger.

” _Mêgh-rut avûd!_ ” he bellowed as soon as he had his breath back. ”What has gotten into you three? For grûck's sake – _speak_! Do not make me force every word out of you.”

”It is as Balin said," grumbled Dwalin. "There has been a misunderstanding, but I don't think it should be me or my brother that should begin the... explanation." 

”A misunderstanding...” Thorin scowled. ”Have you lost your ability to say anything but 'a misunderstanding'? Are you dwarves or elves – pull yourself together and give me answers! What is this 'misunderstanding' that you keep on mentioning? And most importantly, why does Bilbo have wounds that have been inflicted on him several days ago but that have been left untreated until this very night? What has happened to him?”

Grunting, Dwalin gave Dain a murderous look and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Dain had already dropped onto his knees beside Thorin's bed, letting out a strangled noise that almost sounded like a sob. The red pompom of Dain's night cap hung sadly down by his chin when he bowed his head in a resigned, submissive manner.

”Cousin,” Dain said, addressing his words to the ground. ”My lord Thorin. I must beg for your forgiveness. I fear that Master Baggins' illness is at least partially my fault. I misunderstood your order when you asked me to take care of him and that unfortunate misunderstanding is the reason why Master Baggins' wounds were left untreated, though the wounds themselves were inflicted on him during the battle and not by my hand.”

Thorin frowned, his gaze flickering from Dain to the sons of Fundin. Balin was looking at Dain from under his brows with anger but also something akin to pity, while Dwalin had resumed staring forward, grinding his teeth as if he was only barely able to restrain himself from doing something ill-advised.

”I do require more of an explanation,” Thorin said gruffly. ”I asked all three of you to look after Bilbo; why were his wounds allowed to fester? According to Oin, he is also dehydrated – how that came to be? Did you not look after him like I asked you to do?”

”When you asked me to take care of Bilbo Baggins, cousin,” said Dain, ”I interpreted your words... in a slightly different manner. I thought you were asking me to- to execute Master Baggins for his betrayal, to 'take care of him' for once and for good, and while I am not in a habit of beheading simpletons, I considered it my duty to obey your order.”

"Who are you calling a _simpleton_ , Ironfool?" hissed Dwalin, his hand going to the dagger on his belt, his approach towards Dain only halted by the look of warning Balin gave him and the hand Balin placed on his chest.

Thorin stared at his kneeling cousin, unable to comprehend the confession.

”What?” he managed, his voice hoarse, for a lump had suddenly formed in his throat.

Dain cleared his throat and gave Dwalin a calculating look, apparently assessing the level of threat the warrior posed to him.

"My lord," he finally said to Thorin, "I tried to execute the halfling in your name and by your order. I would have done so too hadn't Balin stopped me in time and told me that I had misunderstood your words.”

”It happened but hours after the battle,” Balin put in, giving Dain glare. ”Dain had his execution axe with him and Bilbo was already on the ground. Had I been by but a few moments later, Bilbo would have lost his head.”

” _What?_ ” Thorin could barely recognize the weak, strained voice as his own.

”I know this may come as somewhat of a shock," sighed Dain, "but I'm sure this is one of those things that we can laugh at later, one day. And to my defence, I _was_ going to execute the halfling quickly. My plan was to behead him with one well aimed stroke. I even managed to keep him calm till the very end of it by talking to him about this and that. Master Baggins trusted me and didn't put up much of a struggle. I dare claim that he wouldn't have felt a thing had I actually executed him.”

Thorin's head was spinning and he could do nothing but stare at Dain with dawning horror. Dain had tried to _execute_ Bilbo? _Their Bilbo_. Execute their hobbit. His own cousin had tried to _behead_ someone Thorin _owed a life debt_? Thorin couldn't quite grasp the fact. He was shaking his head, looking at his three cousins and waiting for one of them to tell him the _real_ truth, to tell him that Dain's confession had been a joke, a joke of poor taste but a joke nonetheless.

”While I talked with Dain and told him that he had misinterpreted your order," Balin said instead of admitting that they had been trying to fool Thorin, "Bilbo put his Ring on and managed to escape. We looked for him, but he was impossible to find, invisible as he was. Eventually Dain and I had to give up the search, as our other duties became too pressing. Dwalin and other members of the Company (apart from Fili, Kili and Oin) – as well as several dwarves from Iron Hills – still continued the search.”

Balin and Dwalin looked far too grave to be joking.

”I found Baggins in the Lake-town fourteen bells ago,” Dwalin grumbled, meeting Thorin's gaze briefly before beginning to stare at his toes as if ashamed that he had failed to find Bilbo earlier.

Thorin had still been shaking his head with disbelief, in denial, but Dwalin's words halted even that movement and Thorin froze in place. According to Balin, Dain had tried to execute Bilbo a few hours after the battle. Bilbo had managed to escape and the dwarves had begun to look for him. If Dwalin had only found Bilbo _fourteen bells ago_ , that meant that Bilbo had been missing for almost five days. Five days.

Thorin recalled the way various members of the Company had avoided looking him in the eye and he wondered whether it hadn't been, after all, because of _his_ shameful deeds but for the way they had been keeping information from him. Dwalin's prolonged absence, the way he had been lied to – it all made sense now. The Company had known that Bilbo was missing, but for some reason they had decided not to tell Thorin, which was why they had been so uncomfortable every time he had begun to ask after Bilbo, or Dwalin who must have been looking for Bilbo the whole time Thorin had wondered where he had gone to.

Bilbo had been missing for five days.

Mahal, _five days_! Dain had said that Bilbo's wounds had been inflicted upon him during the battle which meant that Bilbo had been running from Thorin and his dwarves for _five days_ with his battle wounds untreated, most likely terrified for his life. Bilbo was still under the impression that Thorin had ordered him to be killed. For five days, Bilbo had believed that Thorin wanted him dead. If all that was true, it was no wonder that Bilbo's condition was as bad as it was.

Thorin felt sick.

Dwalin was still talking.

”Bilbo fainted shortly after I had managed to caught up with him and so I didn't have the chance to let him know that there had been a misunderstanding and that you had not ordered him to be executed. I had a healer see to him in the Lake-town, but his condition remained grave the whole way back to the camp, regardless.”

”Why did you keep all of this from me?” Thorin demanded, swallowing the nausea that kept rising in the back of his throat. ”Why did you not tell me what had happened to Bilbo? Why did you lie to me?”

”Dwalin wanted to tell you, initially,” admitted Balin, ”but I convinced him otherwise. I'm sorry, laddie, but we simply couldn't take the risk that you would have tried to find Bilbo by yourself. You were still weak and might have strained yourself to death while doing so.”

”It would have killed you,” said Dwalin with conviction.

”You failed to keep me informed.”

”We had to,” claimed Balin with a resigned sigh.

Thorin could feel his temper rising and Dwalin must have noticed it, for he crossed his arms on his chest and glared down at Thorin.

”It is better to have you alive and livid with us, Thorin,” he said, ”than it would have been to come to visit your grave with the knowledge that you died because we refused to keep something from you for a few days. Punish me for lying in whatever way you feel necessary, but know while you're doing so that I do not regret my decision in the least.”

Thorin and Dwalin glared at each other challengingly.

It took Thorin a while to notice the dark circles under Dwalin's eyes and the bone-deep exhaustion that was drawn in all of Dwalin's features. When was the last time Dwalin had eaten anything, let alone slept? It looked like it had been several days since the warrior had got a moment of rest, and even though Thorin was still upset with his friends, he felt concern for this particular friend, in the addition to the one that was lying, feverish, in the next tent.

Breaking eye contact, Thorin sighed and rubbed his face.

”Sit down, Dwalin, before you keel over,” he grumbled.

Dwalin complied without a word of objection and Thorin felt his worry increasing. It was quite telling how exhausted Dwalin truly had to be if he agreed to sit down in a situation like this. Thorin didn't miss the concerned look Balin gave his brother, nor did he miss the slight sway with which Dwalin stepped pass Dain to sit on the wobbly chair by Thorin's bed.

Once sitting, Dwalin continued talking, telling Thorin details of the past five days. He told Thorin of the way Nori had noticed an invisible Bilbo near the water barrels and how the thief had followed the hobbit into Fili and Kili's tent. Dwalin told Thorin that he hadn't been lying when he had said that Bilbo had visited Thorin's tent and proceeded then to describe how the hobbit had managed to escape capture time after time again with the help of his Ring.

While Dwalin talked, Thorin was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. He knew that Dwalin was speaking, but couldn't concentrate on the words, as his mind was suddenly filled with images of a terrified Bilbo standing by his bedside while he slept, oblivious, of an injured Bilbo running for his life from _Thorin_ and his people...

On its own accord, Thorin's mind created alternative versions, an image after image of what-migh-have-beens. What if Bilbo had lost his consciousness in Lake-town before Dwalin had managed to find him? He would have laid there, invisible, and he might not have been found until his body would have turned so rotten that it could have been located by the smell only.

An image of Dain beheading Bilbo forced itself in Thorin's mind. He saw Dain raising his execution axe and he saw the axe cutting through Bilbo's neck easily as if Dain was cutting melting butter instead of hobbit flesh. He saw Bilbo's head, separated from the neck, rolling away from his lifeless body. Blood poured from Bilbo's cut neck and Dain wiped his axe clean before picking up Bilbo's head by the curly, coppery hair. In his mind, Thorin saw Dain coming to see him in his tent. He saw Dain presenting him with Bilbo's head as a proof that the deed had been done. He saw Bilbo's head in detail, the eyes were still open, they stared at Thorin, empty, hollow, seeing nothing.

Had Balin not stopped Dain when he had, those images would have now been the reality.

Nausea had been lingering in the back of Thorin's throat ever since he had first realized what kind of a condition his hobbit friend was in, but now it hit him with full force. Thorin managed to roll to his side just so before he was promptly sick all over the side of his cot. He emptied his stomach on Dwalin and Dain's boots, barely registering the fact, and when there was nothing more to throw up, he continued gagging, while his cousins hovered above him, their worried voices an incomprehensible buzz in his ear. Thorin could feel hands steadying him, while someone held his hair back, away from the vomit.

Once Thorin was done throwing up, he swiped all those hands away and forced himself to get up from the bed. Staggering, he grasped Dain by the back of his neck, and when his knees gave up underneath him, he pulled his cousin down onto the ground with him. The two of them knelt there on the cold ground in a pool of Thorin's vomit, embraced by the pungent smell, their foreheads almost touching, while Dwalin and Balin crouched down by them, voicing their concern. Thorin reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the dagger on Dwalin's belt. With one quick movement, he unsheathed the dagger and pressed the blade against Dain's throat, ignoring Balin's sharp intake of breath.

”I trusted you,” Thorin spat at Dain's startled face. ”I trusted the safety of my friend in your hands and you used his trust in your attempt to kill him! Can you feel my dagger, cousin, can you feel the cold metal against your skin, the sharp blade pressing against your throat? I hope you are now as afraid as Bilbo was when you tried to _murder_ him in _my name_.”

Dain did look scared, scared for his life. His eyes were wide and pleading, his breathing fast and shallow. Thorin could see his own reflection in Dain's watery eyes and under different circumstances the rage on his face might have startled even him. As it now happened, the sight only filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction – Dain deserved to be scared after all he had done to Bilbo, Dain deserved to know what it felt like to be threatened, how it felt to fear for one's life.

”I have half a mind to put this dagger in use,” whispered Thorin.

Dain blanched upon hearing his words and grasped at the hand that was holding the dagger against his throat.

”T-Thorin,” he stuttered. ” _Cousin_ , what I d-did, I only did because I t-thought I was following your _o-orders_.”

”You consider 'please, take care of him' an _execution order_?” hissed Thorin, tightening his hold on Dain's neck, feeling Dain's frantic heartbeat against his palm. ”You would take execution orders from someone barely conscious, from someone in a confused state of mind due to pain and blood loss? You would _behead_ someone without first having the execution order _in writing_?”

By now, Dain was trembling and Balin was repeating Thorin's name over and over again as well as saying things about "thinking things through" and "calming down _for Eru's sake_ before doing anything irreversible".

”If Bilbo dies,” said Thorin in a low voice, looking his cousin deep in the eye, ”you shall die too, Dain. Your life now depends on his survival.”

”Please, my lord,” Dain pleaded, closing his eyes briefly, apparently unable to meet Thorin's gaze for longer. ” _I'm sorry_ , I truly am! Just don't- don't do anything drastic, Thorin, for the hobbit _is_ still alive and anything irreversible hasn't yet happened. If you kill me, people will think that you have relapsed, that you are once more in the clutches of the dragon sickness. They would believe you unfit to rule!”

It wasn't until now that Thorin noted that he had actually broken Dain's skin with the dagger and that the dwarf was actually bleeding from the shallow cut. A red trickle of blood ran down Dain's throat all the way down to his chest where it smeared the white nightshirt. With a grunt, Thorin withdrew the bloodstained dagger and raised it up to Dain's forehead, which prompted Dain to swallow hard and Balin to let out a strangled noise.

”I will decide what your punishment shall be once Bilbo is well enough to voice his wishes regarding the matter,” decided Thorin, taking the night cap off Dain's head and dropping it onto the ground. ”In the meanwhile, let it be known that I no longer consider you my trusted kin. You have proved yourself unreliable and hasty in your actions, and I will not trust anything precious of mine in your hands again. As a sign of this, you no longer have the right to wear the braid of a Trusted One.”

Grasping the said braid, Thorin cut it off from the very base. When the braid hit the ground with a soft thud, all the fine beads still intact, Dain let out a choked noise and turned grey, but otherwise he stayed still and endured the humiliation with as much dignity as anyone could have when kneeling on a puddle of vomit.

Dain lost three braids in total. In the addition of the braid of a Trusted One, Thorin cut off the braid of a Protector and the braid of a Deliberating One. As soon as he withdrew the dagger and handed it back over to Dwalin, Dain raised a trembling hand to his hair. It had to feel odd to miss three familiar braids, considering he had worn them every day for closer to six decades.

”The deed is done” said Balin in a thin, shaky voice, taking a hold of Thorin's arm. "We better get you back on the bed now, Thorin."

Thorin shrugged him off and focused his attention on Dain once more.

”From now on, cousin,” he said to Dain, ”you no longer have the right to carry out executions. Your execution axe will be taken from you and I will appoint another dwarf from Iron Hills to take over that task.”

Dain cleared his throat and his bowed head made a nodding movement.

”Somewhat understandable, my lord.”

”While I have laid here in my tent, injured, have you carried out any other 'orders' of mine, or given punishments to anyone?”

”I have,” admitted Dain. ”I demoted Healer Giril, for I found her defiant, and sent her to the dungeons to look after the few dwarves that have been caught stealing.”

It seemed that Dain had failed to mention this to Oin, as Thorin could now recall Oin sending several of his younger healers to look for a healer called Giril. Oin had appeared quite annoyed and worried that she would disappear in such a manner, though Thorin had been too focused on his nephews at the time to pay the missing healer much mind.

”I want a list of all the punishments you have given without my consent, Dain,” said Thorin, ”as well as the names of the dwarves that have been imprisoned by you and the exact reasons for their imprisonment. I want this all done before dawn.”

”Yes, my lord,” said Dain quietly.

”Let it be known that I am not done with you,” continued Thorin, fixing Dain's slumped form with a look. ”Before any further punishments, however, I will wait for Bilbo Baggins to get better so that he can tell me what kind of a punishment he would like for you to have. He has been wronged and he has the right to express his wishes. For now though, cousin – be gone.”

As if not quite believing that Thorin was letting him go, Dain scrambled up to his feet and took a hesitant step backwards, then another and yet another. After his fifth hesitant step, Dain turned and practically ran out of the tent, out of Thorin's range of anger.

Thorin watched the tent flaps falling closed behind Dain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos!


	11. Bofur, Bilbo, Balin, Dain and Kili: Day Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dain felt humiliated beyond belief."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't yet the meeting between Bilbo and Thorin many of you have been looking forward to, but that *should* be in the next chapter. Hopefully you're not too disappointed.
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING: This chapter contains (brief) mentions of a death of a minor character.**

_Day Six_

_Bofur_

Bofur sat by Bilbo's bed, wiping his friend's face with a cool cloth as requested by Oin. They were trying to bring down Bilbo's high fever, had been doing so for the past four hours. Aware of the modesty of hobbits, Oin had allowed Bilbo to keep his small clothes on, but Bilbo's trousers and the thick winter coat as well as the shirts underneath had been taken off. The mithrill shirt had been treated with all the respect it deserved and it now laid, folded, on Bilbo's bedside table next to a bowl of water, as white and shining and perfect as ever.

Sighing to himself, Bofur dampened the cloth in the bowl of cold water. He then leant down to whisper in Bilbo's ear, just as he had done countless of times in the course of the past few hours.

”Bilbo,” he called his friend's name. ”Bilbo, you need to fight the fever. You need to come back to us. Come back to us, Bilbo, you hear me.”

* * *

_Bilbo_

Gandalf was in the kitchen talking with mother and father. Bilbo could hear plates clattering, his parents were singing the washing song while doing the dishes and even Gandalf joined in the joyful chorus. Bilbo, hiding behind the plush sofa, wanted desperately to call out to them, but he couldn't because Smaug was sleeping right there in the living room, blocking Bilbo's way to the doorway, his scaled flanks expanding and contracting in the rhythm of his steady breathing, and Bilbo didn't dare make a sound in the fear of waking the dragon up again.

Smaug's breathing was hot and Bilbo felt like suffocating in his cramped hiding place. He was wet with sweat and yet it felt like his skin was in flames, so scorching it was. The living room window was open and Bilbo would have climbed out into the cool night, but just as he was about to leave his hiding place in order to do so, _Dain_ peeked inside and Bilbo jerked back in terror, startled by the dwarf's sudden appearance.

”Bilbo!” Dain called his name. He was waving his black, _horrible_ axe about in a nonchalant manner, giving it occasional twirls. ”Bilbo, can you hear me? Bilbo?”

Bilbo hugged his knees to his chest and tried to be as small and unnoticeable as possible. The sofa hid him from Dain's gaze for now, but Bilbo feared what would happen if Dain decided to climb inside. Would he find Bilbo from behind the sofa? Would he _wake Smaug_? Would Smaug destroy Bag End like he had destroyed Lake-town?

Mother and father were still washing the dishes and singing joyfully with Gandalf, all three of them oblivious of the danger so close to them. Bilbo tried desperately to come up with a way to warn them but his mind draw blank time after time again, he couldn't think of one single plan of action, it was too hot and suffocating to properly focus.

”Come back to us, Bilbo,” Dain's words echoed in the night. ” _Come back to us._ You need to fight this and come back to us. It can't end like this, not like this...”

Bilbo certainly wasn't foolish enough to simply _go back_ to the dwarves, thank you very much. No, he was going to stay exactly where he was until either Dain went away and Bilbo could climb out of the window, or until Gandalf came to his aid and saved the day with his considerable powers. Or until the heat became simply too much for Bilbo to bear. It really was _quite hot_ , wasn't it.

Silently, Bilbo opened the buttons of his waistcoat, while his parents still sang in the kitchen and Dain continued calling his name.

* * *

_Bofur_

Holding his breath, Bofur waited for a few hopeful moments, but Bilbo gave no signs of having heard him. The hobbit's breathing was heavy and laborious and every now and then he whimpered in his sleep. Bofur sighed in sympathy and resumed wiping Bilbo's face with the cool cloth.

Oin had placed cool bandages on Bilbo's bare body and was currently rubbing white salve on the flushed skin. The scent of the salve reminded Bofur of the peppermint cakes Bombur always baked for the Yule feast which in turn reminded him of his family which in turn made him wonder in a quite wistful manner how his little nieces and nephews were doing back in Ered Luin.

Before they had left for the Quest, Bofur and Bifur had made a bag full of toys for the little ones. Udrin, in her usual enterprising manner, had promised to give every child one new toy every first day of every one of those months Bofur and Bifur weren't there to do it themselves. When the days had grown hard and gloomy on the Quest, Bofur had closed his eyes and imagined the children receiving their presents, their various new toys – colourful building blocks, dolls, spinning tops, musical boxes, jigsaws, wooden animals, miniature dwarves and elves, skipping ropes, furry oliphants... The joyful giggles and the delighted laughter of his brother-children had never once failed to make him feel better.

Now, though, Bofur didn't close his eyes nor did he try to imagine the laughter of his nieces and nephews. It would have felt wrong to try and be cheerful when Bilbo was in such a poor way; Bofur's first priority was currently to try and make _Bilbo_ feel better, not himself.

Besides, ever since the day Thorin had threatened to throw Bilbo off the gate, everything had felt... dimmer, somehow, and Bofur's desire to laugh had fully disappeared at some point during the battle.

As usual, Bofur shivered when he thought of the battle. It had been such slaughter, such chaos, broken bodies, bloody iron and cries of pain everywhere, and no matter where he had looked, there had always been someone getting killed in a gruesome, merciless manner. There had been a twinkle-eyed lad there at some point, one who had introduced himself to Bofur as ”Midil, the third son of Grun, at your service,” after using his thorny club to mash a face of an orc that had been but moments from cutting Bofur's throat. In the midst of all that death and suffering, Midil had simply winked and grinned and said something witty and Bofur had tried to answer in kind, and when he had turned to look at Midil the next time, the lad no longer had had a head. 

Bifur and Bombur both insisted that he was in shock, that the numb feeling in Bofur's very soul would eventually go away. Bofur didn't know if he believed them, he just knew that he hadn't felt the urge to sing or laugh in several days, something that had never really happened before.

Even if Bofur himself would never again be able to feel joy, it didn't mean that he wanted the same fate to fall to others. If he could help it, no-one else would have to feel as numb as he now did. If he could help it, Bilbo, at least, would get better. The Company owed the hobbit _so much_ , and if it wasn't for the dwarves, Bilbo would still live contentedly in his comfortable smial surrounded by the green, green rolling hills.

In the distance, a bell rang signaling the beginning of the second hour after midnight. Balin and Dwalin had taken Thorin back to his own tent a few hours earlier after Thorin had fainted with a pained grunt, and soon after that Oin had sent Ori to sit with Fili and Kili just in case one of the lads woke up. Oin had naturally appointed one of his healers to Fili and Kili's tent as well, but it didn't hurt to have a familiar, friendly face around when one came to, did it.

* * *

_Balin_

As soon as the tent flaps fell closed behind Dain, Thorin doubled up and let out several pained grunts, accompanied by breathless gasps that might have been originally intended as curse words. Balin swallowed hard and hurried to steady his cousin, rubbing soothing circles on Thorin's heaving back. The situation had to be very shocking to Thorin, it was a wonder how the dwarf was still even conscious after all the agitation and distress that he had been exposed to in the recent hours.

Much to Balin's bewilderment, occasional frustration and secret amusement, Dwalin could be surprisingly squeamish about certain matters, especially for such a hardened warrior. One of the things that made Dwalin particularly squeamish was vomit and Dwalin's face had indeed turned green the moment Thorin had began to throw up. Dwalin was still gagging and holding his nostrils closed, and the moment he met Balin's gaze, he mumbled something about fetching a draught to ease Thorin's pain (and water to get Thorin cleaned up), before scrambling hurriedly up to his feet and staggering out of the tent. His retching outside the tent was clearly audible to anyone in close proximity.

”This has been quite a night, hasn't it," sighed Balin, patting Thorin in the back. "Take deep breaths, laddie, deep breaths..."

Balin's voice was admittedly a bit unsteady, but neither one of them made any mentions of that, too upset as both of them appeared to be. In the course of their long lives, they had seen each other angry in several occasions, but Balin had been quite taken aback by the intensity of the rage he had seen in Thorin's eyes when Thorin had confronted Dain. Such rage had truly been unsettling to witness and the hair in the back of Balin's neck was still standing up - not because he was scared of his cousin, no, no, certainly not, but because an enraged Thorin usually meant that there was danger nearby, that Thorin could smell elves or orcs, and that was naturally more than enough to put Balin on edge, to unsettle him, to make him cautious, even if Thorin's rage was this once caused by kin instead of foe.

In all truthfulness, Balin had several reasons to be distressed. He was under quite a lot of pressure with all the more or less necessary things that he should have been currently organizing and delegating, and no matter how justified the act of cutting Dain's braids off had been, Balin could already anticipate all the political repercussions it would have, a fact that weighed heavily on his mind. In the addition of all that, Balin's hands would shake every once in awhile, so worried he was for Thorin, for Fili and Kili, for Bilbo, as well as for Dwalin who seemed quite exhausted. They all looked so ill and pale, so unlike their usual selves. Mahal, surely they would survive these ordeals now that they all were in Oin's care? Surely? There had been enough death already, far too many prematurely lost souls.

"Now then, laddie," Balin cleared his throat and took charge of the situation, pulling himself forcefully together, "let us get you back on the bed."

”No!” Thorin's voice was thin and full of pain between the grunts and gasps, but his manner remained so determined and unrelenting that Balin had to sigh, even though he had expected no less of his stubborn kin. ”Not onto the bed, Balin – help me to back to Bilbo's tent instead. I need to be there when he wakes up, I need to- I need to explain everything to him immediately – he thinks me mad still, he thinks that I'm after his blood, after his life, that I have send my warriors after him. I have to put his mind at ease! I _have to_ go and explain everything to him.”

Balin pressed his lips tightly together to keep himself from cursing Dain out loud. For purely political reasons, for the sake of Thorin's rule, he might have kept Dwalin and Thorin from causing the lord any grave bodily harm but that didn't mean that he was even close to forgiving the fool who had almost slaughtered someone Balin had come to consider a friend, someone the dwarves of Erebor owed a debt so great that it could never be paid in gold only. Now it also seemed that not only had Dain driven Bilbo close to death, but he had also caused Thorin such distress by doing so that it looked like Thorin's condition was rapidly deteriorating, if Thorin's ghastly pallor and the pained gasps and soft grunts that kept escaping his lips were anything to go by.

”You are in no condition to go anywhere but back to bed,” said Balin sternly, ”and, in any case, I don't think it would be good for Bilbo to see you in his current state. Your presence could be quite distressing to him, laddie, and becoming even more distressed could currently have horrible, potentially fatal consequences to him, surely you must understand that. You should wait until Bilbo is strong enough to face you before you go and visit him again.”

The words – however true they rang – were cruel in their frankness, but as the truth in the words could well keep Thorin from straining himself any further, Balin didn't allow himself to feel guilty for the way Thorin's form slumped, for the way Thorin seemed to shrink in on himself. Indeed, simply the possibility that he might unintentionally cause Bilbo further harm was more than enough to silence Thorin. He immediately stopped insisting that Balin was to take him to Bilbo's tent and seemed instead rather compliant to Balin's advice, looking exhausted and beaten and just as pained as he had to feel.

Balin grimaced as he made to lift Thorin up from the ground. His back didn't appreciate the strain, but as he was almost as stubborn as Thorin and far more persistent than both Dwalin and Thorin put together, he ignored the protests of his body and helped Thorin up from the ground, taking most of his cousin's weight as he guided him back onto the bed.

Dwalin soon re-entered the tent with a bottle of draught for the pain and a bowl of water, having fetched them from Fili and Kili's tent. The sons of Fundin quickly proceeded to clean their cousin up, and even though Dwalin had to run out of the tent three times when the smell and sight of vomit became too much for him to bear, they managed to wash Thorin as well as it simply was possible in such inconvenient conditions.

Once they were finished and Thorin was clean and tucked comfortably in the bed, Dwalin and Balin exchanged a knowing, foreboding look. As one, they knelt slowly by the bed (avoiding the remaining pool of vomit quite carefully) and bowed their heads. Dwalin unsheathed his dagger, while Thorin turned his heavy gaze on them.

”My lord,” spoke Balin, clearing his throat. ”We have told you of our actions in the recent days – even though our motives welled from love and concern for you, we _did_ lie to you and keep information from you intentionally. It has now come our time, as well, to face the consequences of our actions and we submit to whatever punishment you deem suitable.”

”Which one of our braids do we ought to cut off?” asked Dwalin bluntly, clenching the dagger in his fist.

It took Thorin such a long time to answer that Balin eventually looked up to see whether the cousin had fallen asleep. It turned out that Thorin was still wide awake and was currently studying the two kneeling dwarves by his bed with an unreadable look on his face.

”You two _never_ need to kneel before me,” Thorin finally said in a hoarse voice. ”And you need not lose any of your braids. I do understand why you did what you did – you are hereby pardoned and forgiven. I still trust you and our friendship remains strong.”

Dwalin's shoulders slumped in visible relief and Balin released the breath he had been holding. His heart felt lighter than it had been just a few moments earlier, despite of his pressing duties and the gnawing worry he felt for all his injured friends.

* * *

_Dain_

Dain felt humiliated beyond belief. Not only had he been made march across the clearing to Thorin's tent _half-naked_ wearing nothing but his boots and night clothes, but he had also just lost _three of his precious braids_ , which in itself was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him.

The braid of a Trusted One. The braid of a Protector. The braid of a Deliberating One.

It was foolish and sentimental, but Dain couldn't help but run his hand through his hair again and again to try and feel the missing braids. By cutting those three particular braids off, Thorin had declared Dain An Unreliable One, A Negligent One and A Precipitous One and the fact that his hair had been cut off as a punishment by none else but the highly regarded _Thorin Oakenshield_ himself would taint Dain's reputation, most likely beyond repair. It would take decades at the very least before dwarves would look at him with the respect he was due after word of this shame spread, it would take even longer than that before people would look _first_ in his eyes and only then at the spot where his braids were supposed to be.

Moving his hand to his throat to put pressure on the shallow cut on his skin, Dain grumbled to himself, becoming angrier by the moment. What had his cousin been thinking! If anyone deserved to get their braid of a Deliberating One cut off, it was _Thorin_ for the rash, inconsiderate way he had treated Dain this very night. Dain couldn't believe that his cousin had done something like this to him. It was understandable that Thorin's painful injuries were making the dwarf irritable, but there was no reason for him to take his irritation out on Dain. What had Dain ever done to him, after all!

Yes, yes, Dain had misunderstood Thorin's words and startled the halfling, but that was Thorin's fault even more so than it was Dain's: how had he been supposed to know that Thorin had pardoned the halfling during the battle? One moment Thorin had hated the hobbit with passion, the next he had asked Dain to dedicate time and effort in caring for the strange little thing – any way one put it, it still _didn't sound believable_ , nor did it make any sense. And to lose one's braids because of an odd creature like Bilbo Baggins, it was just adding insult to injury. (Not that any of this was the hobbit's fault, of course, no, no. Dain didn't blame Bilbo Baggins in the slightest, he had always had a soft spot for simpletons, after all. There was something endearing – and entertaining – about them, and when it came down to it, they couldn't help the way they were, could they.)

In any case, if Thorin had wanted Dain to look after the hobbit, he should have said it in a clearer manner. Eru, if Thorin couldn't be clear enough with his orders, _he_ was the one that didn't deserve to have the right to carry out punishments. When it came down to it, Dain thought bitterly, Thorin could be _such a hypocrite_.

And what did Thorin even know about carrying out punishments anyway, let alone about ruling? Nothing compared to Dain, that was for certain! While Thorin had been working in the villages of men for a few silly coins, Dain had ruled over the Iron Hills. When one really thought about it, it was easy to see which one of them was more of a ruler, birthright or not - under Dain's rule the Iron Hills had become more prosperous each year and for decades Dain had been quite a lot wealthier than Thorin. Which of course raised yet another concern: Now that Thorin had managed to reclaim Erebor and had become rich overnight, Dain feared that his cousin, so used to poverty and simple life, would not be able to handle money in a sensible manner. Thorin would need guidance when it came to financial matters – not that _Dain_ would help him with that after the way he had lost his braids, his good reputation because of Thorin's _whims_.

Dain considered his punishment far too harsh. He had made one mistake – one, just _one_ , for Eru's sake – and he had already apologized for that and shown remorse. The halfling hadn't even died, so there really was no reason for Thorin to be this exasperated. Dain had only agreed to endure his punishments, had only allowed Thorin to cut the braids off for the exact same reason he had answered Thorin's call in the first place and brought his army here: because he wanted to get a share of Erebor's considerable wealth and only by obeying Thorin would he get what he was after.

Still, walking towards his own tent through the snow, Dain couldn't help but think of all the ways Thorin had wronged him over the years. Bitterly, he recalled the time when Thorin had refused to send one of his two heirs to live in the Iron Hills, even though Dain had promised him _two chests full of gold_ in exchange of the younger heir, a price so high that it had to have been more than what Thorin had owned at the time. Dain was unable to sire children, he _couldn't_ produce an heir due to an unfortunate ailment, and it all just went to show how selfish Thorin could be that he wouldn't give one of his heirs to Dain. It wasn't like Thorin _needed_ two heirs at once, after all, and if something had happened to the older heir, Dain would have naturally given the younger heir back to Thorin (in exchange of some compensation). Had the situation been reversed – had Dain had more than one heir while Thorin had none – he would have allowed Thorin to even take his pick, so generous _he_ was!

Dain didn't consider himself petty, but it _had_ been nice to retaliate by denying Thorin the one thing he had ever asked of Dain. (Though had Dain known that Thorin _would_ go on the Quest even without an army from the Iron Hills, he would have given the request more consideration, as he did care about his cousin, even after everything and despite of all of Thorin's shortcomings. Still, it had been undeniably nice to have a bit of power over Thorin _for once_.)

Letting out a deep sigh, Dain entered his tent, waving the servants away. As if it hadn't been humiliating enough to lose his braids and the right to carry out executions, he now had to write Thorin a list of all the punishments he had given in Thorin's absence as if he was a dwarfling whose schoolwork needed to be reviewed. Grumbling to himself, Dain bandaged his throat and changed into a tunic and long trousers before he sat at his desk, placed two empty parchments on the desk in front of him and opened the bottle of ink.

Just as he was about to dip his quill in the ink, an idea hit Dain. The idea was actually rather good in all of its opportunism. No, it was more than good, it was excellent, really, and Dain had to congratulate himself for coming up with it: to get his share of the gold, he actually _didn't_ need to endure any further punishments to appease Thorin, he _didn't_ need to write any lists or wait for Bilbo Baggins to have his say on the matter. No, all Dain had to do was to get one member of Thorin's Company to join His Household and the gold of that dwarf's would then be his to control. Even better than that, if Dain managed to convince Thorin's younger nephew - the one that had already regained consciousness - to come to live in the Iron Hills with him, he would get both an heir _and_ his share of the gold, both at once.

Under usual circumstances it probably would have been impossible to try and convince one of Thorin's nephews to leave Thorin considering how loyal the young princes were to their uncle, but the younger prince – Kifi? Fiki? Liki? – was still injured and most likely quite confused due to all the healing potions he had been made to drink after he had woken up the previous afternoon, and so it was possible indeed that he would agree to join Dain's Household if only Dain was cunning enough. All Dain would have to do was to get the younger prince to sign an agreement and the boy - of age as he was - would then become legally a part of _Dain's_ household. There would be _nothing_ anyone could do about a legal contract signed by two adults.

Dain smirked to himself and dipped the quill in the ink, not to write any a list but to draw a contract. If he had his way (as he usually did), he would have an heir as well as his share of Erebor's gold before dawn and then he could simply go back home and leave his advisers to deal with the aftermath. Back home, he would then care for his gold and heir in equal measures, and the fact that his heir would be one of Thorin Oakenshield's nephews would be a nice compensation for the braids he had lost by Thorin's hand.

* * *

_Kili_

There were small holes in the ceiling of the tent which made the blue canvas look almost like a starry sky, even though the holes didn't form any constellations Kili could have recognized. Gazing at the tiny, star-like holes with concentration, Kili thought of the real night sky, the one he couldn't see through the ceiling, and wondered what true starlight would now seem like to his eye. Would he consider it beautiful, or would he see it even colder than before now that the red-haired Maiden of Starlight had left this world, now that she no longer walked under the starry sky?

”You're thinking of that elf again, aren't you,” noted Ori who was sitting in the chair between Fili and Kili's bed doing his best to braid his short hair with his one uninjured hand. ”Would your uncle not disapprove if he knew where your thoughts have so often lain as of late?”

”Thorin doesn't need to know of these thoughts,” said Kili evasively. ”And don't call her 'that elf', Ori – her name was Tauriel. She shouldn't be remembered as an "elf" but as the brave and beautiful being that she was. I think she was quite dwarvish.”

Ori blushed beat red and casted a hasty glance about to make sure that no-one had heard Kili's shocking words. In the addition of Fili, Kili and Ori himself, there was only one other person in the tent, a middle-aged healer who seemed to be quite focused on washing blood off the used bandages in the far end of the tent.

”You shouldn't say things like that, Kili,” Ori said quietly, tilting his head towards the healer in a rather pointed manner. ” _Someone_ might overhear.”

”I don't care!” declared Kili a tad more fiercely than he had originally intended. ”I really don't. And, in fact, I think that everyone _should_ hear! Everyone _should_ hear how brave Tauriel was, elf or not. She deserves to have her name in songs and written in the walls of the grandest of halls. I will ask my uncle to name the highest of watchtowers in her honour.”

”You think that Thorin would agree to that?” Ori's voice was doubtful.

”I don't know,” Kili admitted with a deep sigh, rubbing his face. ”Perhaps, considering everything she did for us. She was... she was...

Words failed Kili for once in his life, and so he simply sighed and resumed looking at the holes in the ceiling.

In this moment, Kili longed for his brother, mother and uncle quite desperately, he wanted to have his family close, wanted to see that they were all still alive. He wished that Fili was awake. Fili always knew what to say, he always had solutions for everything, and even though Oin had assured Kili and Thorin that Fili was doing quite well especially under the circumstances, Kili would have prefered to have Oin's words confirmed by Fili himself. How much longer would Fili still remain unconscious? Why hadn't he yet come to?

What would Mother say if she knew that her family had survived the encounter with Smaug but had then been gravely injured by orcs and goblins? Kili bit his lip, missing his mother with all his heart. He knew that Mother had wanted to come with them, but seeing as she wasn't able to move around without the help of her wheelchair, she simply couldn't have done so. Kili had never been thankful of the mining accident that had claimed his father and disabled his mother, but during the battle he had been glad that his mother had been unable to follow Uncle in all that bloodshed, a fierce warrior though she may have been in her time. Now she was safe at the Fundins, much to Kili's peace of heart.

Who knows how long Kili might have stared at the ceiling in his more or less sad and dark thoughts hadn't Lord Dain of the Iron Hills unexpectedly entered the tent with an air of importance. Kili didn't know Lord Dain well at all, but they had been introduced some decades ago when Lord Dain had visited Ered Luin and the two of them had even exchanged a few words during the battle, so he immediately did recognize the bulky figure, though why the lord would want to visit him in the middle of the night that Kili couldn't guess. Whatever the reason, it couldn't be anything good, and suddenly Kili felt a lump of worry in his throat - surely nothing had happened to Thorin?

"Lord Dain," Kili hastened to greet Dain and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, anxious to hear whatever it was that Dain had deemed so important to tell him that it couldn't have waited till the morning.

While Ori stood up and gave Lord Dain a stiff bow, Kili had to give up trying to sit up, for he was still far too weak to do much else but to lie still and so he eventually settled for gazing at the lord of the Iron Hills from his horizontal position. Lord Dain didn't seem to mind Kili's position at all and instead gave him a deep bow.

Unlike during the battle when he had been wearing his practical armor, Lord Dain now looked quite pompous in his brightly coloured clothes, with some kind of an expensive-looking, gleaming black fabric wrapped around his head to work as a peculiar, interesting hat. Kili couldn't see Lord Dain's hair from the black fabric, but several silver beads glimmered in the midst of the dark grey beard by the candlelight.

”Your Highness,” said Lord Dain, his gaze flickering from Kili and Ori to an unconscious Fili, even as he waved off the middle-aged healer who had come to greet him. With a respectful bow, the healer went back to the far end of the tent and resumed washing bandages. ”I had hoped to speak with you about certain matters and it is a pleasant surprise to see that you are still awake.”

”C-can't these 'matters' not w-wait until the m-morning, Your Lordship?” stuttered Ori nervously but in such a cold, sharp voice that Kili was momentarily quite taken aback.

It was startling in itself that Ori – their shy, obedient, easily embarrassed _Ori_ – would dare to speak up in the presence of such a high-ranking, _unfamiliar_ dwarf like Lord Dain, but that he would use a tone of voice like _that_ when addressing _anyone_... it was simply unheard of. Curious, Kili wondered what Lord Dain had done to cause Ori's ire and made a firm decision to ask about it later.

”Prince Kili s-should not be s-strained in any way," continued Ori, glaring at Lord Dain. "He w-was just about to f-fall asleep when you startled him a-awake with your loud entry.”

”My apologies,” said Lord Dain, looking Ori assessingly up and down, before focusing his gaze on Kili. ”I would be delighted if you could spare me a moment of your time, Prince Kili. It would only take a few moments and then you could resume resting.”

”W-What kind of a matter could be of such i-importance, my lord,” said Ori, stepping boldly between Kili and Lord Dain much to Kili's astonishment, ”that it would r-require you to come visit an _injured_ Prince Kili _in the middle of the n-night_ when you could go s-speak with his uncle or Master Balin instead? I hope this isn't any k-kind of a 'misunderstanding' again?”

To Kili's further astonishment, Lord Dain actually flushed and looked quite uncomfortable, and Kili was instantly intrigued. Misunderstanding? _"Again?"_ By Mahal, what had Dain done to make Ori this feisty? Kili casted Fili a quick look, it was truly a great pity that Fili was missing this exchange, that Fili was missing the way _Ori_ – their _Ori_ – was pretty much _reprimanding_ the lord of the Iron Hills – Fili would never believe this when he came to!

"I have some parchments for His Highness to sign," said Dain to Ori in a rather dismissive manner and, indeed, Kili now noticed that he did have a few parchments with him, as well as a quill and a bottle of ink.

Relieved for the way it appeared that Lord Dain hadn't come to tell him ill news after all, Kili allowed himself to breathe more easily. If something had happened to Uncle, surely Lord Dain would have already said so.

"I would have presented them to you in the morning, my prince," continued Lord Dain in a slightly apologetic tone, "but now that you happen to be awake, I would prefer it if you were to sing them tonight, so that I can... move on to other things."

"Sure," sighed Kili, gesturing for Dain to come closer. "It's not like I have much else to occupy my time with and sleep seems to be evading me."

As Lord Dain stepped pass Ori, presenting Kili with a few parchments, Ori watched on with visible suspicion. Kili tried to calm his friend by giving him a wink, but this didn't seem to sooth Ori in the least.

”These matters are private,” Lord Dain said to Ori over his shoulder when Ori made no movement to leave the two alone.

”It's fine,” said Kili, rolling his eyes and waving Lord Dain's concerns off. ”Ori is trusted by the line of Durin. You can speak freely in his presence. I vouch for him.”

Despite of Kili's words, Lord Dain seemed to hesitate for a moment while Ori raised his chin in a mutinous manner, but then he gave a curt nod.

"Very well," he said. "As you wish, Prince- uh... my prince."

Satisfied with the answer, Kili began to read the topmost parchment, oblivious of the way Ori and Lord Dain were glaring at each other.

"You needn't strain your eyes so," said Lord Dain abruptly, opening the bottle of ink with a pop and dipping the quill in the blue substance, breaking Kili's concentration before he had managed to read put a few sentences. "Just sign the parchments and the matter shall be cleared."

"I've been taught that I should familiarize myself with the content of the text before signing anything," said Kili with a frown, even though Lord Dain was already putting the quill in his hand. "I don't yet even know what these parchments are about."

"Oh, they're just a simple contract between close kin," said Lord Dain with a kind smile, leaning down to guide the quill in Kili's hand to the empty line on the bottom of the contract. "It's just a formality, you understand. Nothing to be concerned about. By signing, you entitle yourself to use the royal chambers and the practise fields in the Iron Hills whenever you so wish. To give but an example."

"Oh," said Kili, brightening at the mention of the Iron Hill's practise fields - he had heard much praise about them and even Mister Dwalin had admitted to considering them rather good. "That's very generous of you, Lord Dain. I've heard that you have at least thirty separate areas for target practise in the Iron Hills. If that is true, then it would definitely be a privilege to get to inspect the fields in person some day."

Lord Dain's smile widened and he gestured towards the parchment.

"Just sign," he said, "and then the practise fields will be ready for your use at all times - the Iron Hills will feel like a home to you.

Later, when questioned by his uncle, Kili insisted that he really _would have_ read the contract before even considering signing it and that the spot of ink on the empty line at the bottom of the parchment had dropped there _by accident_. As it now happened though, Kili never had the chance to decide for himself whether or not to sign the contract, for the parchments were unexpectedly snatched from his lap.

"Give those back, boy!" cried Lord Dain, glowering at Ori who was now standing on the other side of Kili's bed, opposite of Dain, having withdrawn there with the contract he had snatched from Kili.

"I'm a r-royal s-scribe, my l-lord!" Ori said, visibly nervous about his bold, blunt deed, although his eyes were already sweeping over the parchments. "I know quite a bit about c-contracts and legal agreements, and now that P-Prince Kili is tired and under the influence of several healing potions, it shouldn't hurt to have me to r-read this contract on his b-behalf to prevent any f-future 'misunderstandings', especially if the contract is just a 'formality' as you claimed, Lord Dain. The line of Durin t-trusts me and it is an honour to l-look after them and t-their interests!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty desperate move on Dain's part, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter regardless.
> 
> Thank you once again for all the comments and kudos!


	12. Bilbo: Day Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bilbo knew well that now was not the time for pity, for he needed to fully focus on escaping, on surviving."

_Day Seven_

Bilbo woke up to find himself lying on a lumpy mattress, sweating and shivering in equal measures. He had been covered with a blanket that had a fresh scent like someone had recently given it a long, thorough airing, but – regardless of that pleasant scent – he couldn't decide whether to push the cloth away or to wrap it tighter around himself, simultaneously hot and cold as he was. He felt _sick_ and terribly thirsty and wanted little more than to curl up on his side and to pass out, to welcome the oblivion that lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

Instead of yet allowing himself to pass out, however, Bilbo lifted a hand to rub his eye, yawning as he did so. His fingers happened to graze his forehead and, much to his surprise, they came in contact with coarse fabric. Bemused, Bilbo felt the fabric, tracing its edged with his fingertips. He soon came to a conclusion that someone had wrapped his head with a bandage which was more than enough to make his eyes fly open.

It all came back to Bilbo, as he opened his eyes to daylight. Suddenly he could recall with vivid clarity all the things that had happened to him after the battle, after Thorin – _Thorin_ – had given Dain the order to have him executed. Bilbo's heart sank as memories filled his mind and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach, recalling how he had lost his most precious friendships.

The last thing Bilbo could remember, he had been in Lake-town hunted down by Dwalin. He had been caught by the said dwarf, after which he had pretended to faint in order to escape Dwalin's hold only to lose consciousness for real shortly afterwards. If he had collapsed like that, Bilbo now mused with concern, he must have been quite a lot more ill than he had realized in the middle of his precarious situation. All the stress had probably made his bad condition that much worse and being invisible might have well put some additional strain on his body as well – who knew what kind of side effects there was to wearing a magic ring after all, no matter how useful that ring happened to be.

Bilbo had no idea who had saved him from Dwalin, who had bandaged his temple and covered him with a blanket, nor did he know the motives of his saviour, or why they had decided to help him in the first place. How he had ended up from Lake-town on this lumpy mattress under a warm blanket, he couldn't yet say, but it was of utmost importance to get an answer to that question as soon as possible. Blinking the rapidly forming tears from his eyes in an angry, determined manner, Bilbo pushed himself up into a sitting position to take a cautious look around, for he didn't yet even know where he currently was, or where the dwarves were, or whether he was in any immediate danger.

Upon looking around, Bilbo now saw that he was lying on a cot as the only occupant of a relatively large, blue tent. His world came to an immediate halt, as he came to the horrible realization that he had been in a tent similar to this one before, and a couple of times at that: this blue tent was similar to the ones in which Thorin, Fili and Kili had been lying – this blue tent was _unmistakably_ a _dwarven_ tent. The entrance flap of the tent was closed, but upon straining his ears, Bilbo could nevertheless hear someone talking outside the tent in a language he didn't understand but could easily recognize as Khuzdul, the secret language of dwarves, with all of its guttural sounds. The fact that he was, in fact, in a _dwarven_ tent that was being guarded by _dwarves_ was enough to convince Bilbo of the fact that he was currently _in_ the camp of _dwarves_.

Becoming more anguished by the moment, Bilbo couldn't help the disbelieving half-sob, half-laugh that escaped his lips then; It seemed like he hadn't been saved after all. It seemed that Dwalin had taken him _back to the dwarven camp_ where healers had then proceeded to look after Bilbo, cleansing his wounds, covering him with warm blankets. While the acts themselves appeared pleasant and kind, the motives behind them were all almost too horrible for Bilbo to comprehend – could the hatred of dwarrows really run so deep and unrelenting that dwarves had chosen to nurse him back to health simply to prevent him from dying before his execution? It certainly looked like that, as the dwarves had bandaged his head, had kept him warm, had wasted their _precious resources_ to keep him alive.

Even though he was currently alone in the tent, Bilbo was also almost certain that someone had been put in charge of guarding him, that someone was _supposed to_ be there with him even if they currently weren't for whatever reason. After all, if his friends

(they weren't his friends anymore, were they)

had gone through all the trouble of nursing him back to health only to get to kill him afterwards, it was likely that they had also taken some precautions to prevent him from escaping again. It was truly a stroke of luck that he had happened to wake up while whoever it was that was in charge of guarding him had momentarily left the tent for one reason or another, otherwise Bilbo might have well been on his way to his execution by now.

These thoughts, of course, made Bilbo come to the startling realization that if he wanted to survive this ordeal, he needed to decide his next course of action before his guard came back and found him awake. If Bilbo didn't want to surrender to the terrible fate his friends

(they _weren't_ his friends anymore)

had in mind for him, if he wanted to survive to see his dear Hobbiton again, he needed to act _now_ , he needed to decide his next course of action immediately, when he still could.

Undecided, Bilbo glanced around the tent. If he managed to leave the dwarven camp, he could always head for the camp of elves, and if he managed to reach the elves, he could ask for their help and might even find Gandalf among them. In any case, after everything he had done for Thranduil and Thranduil's son, he _would_ be safe with the elves, of that Bilbo was certain.

Something white and shining caught Bilbo's eye just then and, much to his surprise, he saw his folded mithril shirt on the bedside table. Where the shirt had once been a symbol of valued friendship, it now reminded Bilbo of the way he had lost Thorin's friendship, the friendship of dwarrows. He couldn't help but wonder if the shirt had been left there to taunt him, to remind him that while he could well have the symbol of Thorin's friendship, he could never again have Thorin's friendship itself.

Biting his lip against the anguish, Bilbo looked around in case the Ring had also been left in the tent, but it soon became obvious that the dwarves had been smart enough to strip him off the Ring, his ability to turn invisible, the one advantage he had had over them. With a sinking feeling Bilbo realized that while it was easy enough to decide to go to the elves, the more difficult part of his escape would be to get from this tent to the edge of the dwarven camp. Eru, now that he didn't have his Ring anymore how would he ever be able to walk from the middle of the dwarven camp to the edge of it without being noticed, without someone stopping him, without getting caught? Without the invisibility the Ring offered, it sounded impossible. It probably _was_ impossible.

Running a hand through his dirty, uncombed hair, Bilbo had to admit to himself in a rather helpless manner that he didn't really know what to do. He was naturally desperate to get far away from this tent – his prison – as soon as possible, but at the same time he was reluctant to leave the shelter of the tent as he was the only hobbit in the entire dwarven camp and thus his features were distinct and easily recognizable. The moment he stepped out of the tent there would be a high risk of someone recognizing him, of someone catching him.

If he stayed in bed pretending to be still fast asleep, Bilbo mused, he could wait for the nightfall and then use the darkness to his advantage. He could sneak out of the camp under cover of darkness, or at least his chances of managing to escape would be that much higher during the night. On the other hand, once his guard came back from wherever they had gone to, it was possible that Bilbo wouldn't be left alone for the second time. If he didn't leave the tent now that his guard wasn't there to prevent him from escaping, who was to say that he would ever get a chance like this again, who was to say that he would ever have another opportunity to escape if he didn't seize this one?

Eventually Bilbo decided that it was better to take a chance of getting caught that it was to stay imprisoned. He might get caught, yes, but if he just laid in bed he might never get a chance to even try and escape. So, without any further ado, Bilbo threw the covers aside and scrambled out of the bed. As soon as his feet touched the cold ground, cool air embraced him in a merciless manner and his feverish body shivered violently, even though there was a crackling sound coming from the black stove signaling the fact that someone had apparently lit a fire in it in order to keep the tent warm, a fact that stung Bilbo more than he cared to admit.

For a kindhearted hobbit like Bilbo it was simply impossible to understand hatred of that kind. If dwarves really hated him so much that they were ready to go through all the trouble to heal him only to kill him once he was aware enough to be scared, if all that was true, then Bilbo certainly pitied the race of dwarves. How dark their lives had to be with that level of unforgiveness, how bitter they had to grow before they reached old age! Bilbo's heart ached for his friends

(they _weren't his friends_ anymore)

and he felt sorry for them, wishing in a quite wistful manner that there was something he could have done to help them to see the lighter side of life, the bright side, the more merciful side.

However sorry he felt for his friends

( _they weren't his friends anymore, for Eru's sake_ )

Bilbo knew well that now was not the time for pity, for he needed to fully focus on escaping, on surviving.

Next to the stove there was some kind of a laundry rack and Bilbo saw his own clothes – now mended and clean – drying on that rack. After snatching the mihtril shirt from the bedside table, he hurried to the rack (flushing with mortification, as he realized that he was currently _only_ wearing his _small clothes_ and that whoever it was that had tended to him, had seen him _in a state of undress_ which was very indecent and unbecoming of any an adult Baggins, let alone of one of Bag End, no matter the circumstances).

Hurriedly, Bilbo put his trousers and shirt on, buttoning them as quickly as he simply could with his trembling fingers. The mithril shirt he put on top of his coat, as he decided that the white armor might well help him to hide in the snow better than his blue coat ever could.

Just as he had finished getting dressed, Bilbo happened to caught sight of a healing bag that someone had placed under his bed. He quickly fished the bag from under the bed and proceeded to empty its content onto the bed amidst the crumpled sheets as silently as he could as to not draw the attention of the guards outside the tent. He studied all the items thoroughly but briskly in an attempt to find something – anything – that could be of use to him during his escape.

So desperate Bilbo had become that he didn't even hesitate to arm himself with the scalpel that he managed to find among the various items. He wasn't planning on actually using the blade on anyone, but as he couldn't well march out of the tent through the front entrance due to the guards standing on the other side in front of it, he could use the scalpel to cut the back of the tent open and escape through that makeshift entrance.

With a determined nod, Bilbo abandoned all the other items and made his way to the back of the tent with the scalpel in his hand, preparing to seize the opportunity and do all that he could to escape the grasp of

(his friends)

the dwarves.

Standing close to the canvas of the tent, he held his breath and listened to any sounds coming from the other side of the tent wall. He could hear voices talking in Khuzdul in a distance and various clinking and clattering noises as well as distant footsteps, muffled laughter and the occasional shouted curse. These were all ordinary sounds that one could hear anywhere where there were living beings about, but Bilbo still had no way of knowing for certain what there was on the other side of the tent wall, what he would find, and he mentally prepared himself for pretty much anything.

Looking at his reflection on the blade of the scalpel, Bilbo gave himself a watery smile. He had often considered his nose slightly too large and the colour of his eyes a bit too dull, but he had gradually grown fond of his features. Now it made him sad to think that this could well be the last time he saw his reflection, the last time he saw his own face, if he got caught by the dwarves after escaping this tent.

Using the scalpel, Bilbo made a small cut on the canvas and took a cautious peek through the hole to assess his surroundings. The midday sun was bright and the snow all around sparkled like a layer of quality sugar, momentarily blinding him, but once his eyes were adjusted to the bright light outside, Bilbo saw lines and lines of blue tents that had been pitched about twenty yards from him, opposite of his tents. Between those tents and his tent, there was a cooking area with several busy-looking dwarves pottering around, but fortunately for Bilbo, there were also relatively high snow drifts between him and the cooking area – with any luck, he could crawl away from this tent while hiding behind those snow drifts well out of the dwarves' line of sight.

Without wasting any more time in the fear of getting caught at his task, Bilbo knelt down onto the ground, poked the scalpel through the canvas and slitted the wall all the way down to the ground. The resulting hole was just big enough for him to slip outside.

Cool air hit Bilbo as soon as he left the relative warmth of the tent. The snow outside was wet and freezing cold, and as he crawled away from his tent, trying to stay out of the cooks' line of sight, Bilbo's trousers were soon soaked through. His shivers grew more violent by the moment and he felt faint and miserable in his feverish state.

The cooks were arguing about this and that – mostly about who could use which pot and pan – and there were even a few playful scuffles from the sounds of it, all of which Bilbo was very thankful of as they distracted the dwarves from noticing his escape. Due to the cooks' distracted state and the cover the snow drifts offered, Bilbo managed to crawl quite far from his tent, but he soon came to the realization that most of the tents had to be empty due to the time of the day – it was but noon after all and most dwarves were still busy doing their chores. The tents had been pitched up side by side in neat lines, and as soon as Bilbo reached the closest one of the blue tents (and had made a small hole in the canvas to see whether the tent was truly empty), he slit the canvas with the scalpel he still had with him and crawled into the unoccupied tent.

With his heart in his throat, Bilbo quickly took his soaked trousers off and stole the dry ones someone had laid out onto one of the nine cots. Once dressed in his new – blissfully dry and warm – trousers, he then hurried to the opposite wall of the tent and slitted the wall, crawling out of the tent and – with yet another cut in the canvas blocking his way – into the next tent.

The tents turned out to be just as empty as he had presumed, and so Bilbo proceeded to slit his way through the camp, unseen by everyone, leaving two hobbit-sized holes in opposite walls of every tent he passed through. With his heart pounding in his chest, he quickly lost count on how many tents he broke into, living once again up to his title as The Burglar.

Eventually Bilbo reached the end of the line of tents. After having made yet another small hole in the canvas to peek on the other side, he saw that there, on the other side of this particular tent wall, was the busy Main Road of the camp, a road that was _swarming with dwarrows_.

It might have been difficult for Bilbo to decide on what he should have done next, how he should have proceeded from there, hadn't he happened to caught sight of an approaching wagon that was heading away from the centre of the camp. The wagon was moving slowly due to all the dwarves swarming on the road around it and Bilbo quickly estimated that the wagon would go right pass the tent he was currently in.

As a child, Bilbo had often jumped onto passing hay carts for fun and he wondered whether he could now do the same thing without anyone noticing, if he could jump onto the wagon as it passed by him. Bilbo had to soon disregard this idea, as he was too ill to make such acrobatic moves. And in any case, he wasn't the supple boy he had once been and could have easily caused himself fatal injury if his jump had failed and he had ended up in the way of the large wheel.

It turned out, however, that Bilbo didn't need to jump onto the wagon as luck was on his side: just as the wagon passed by him, it came to an abrupt halt and Bilbo heard a few guards saying something in Khuzdul to the dwarf that was driving the wagon. It appeared that the guards had halted the wagon for one reason or another and – since the wagon was heading away from the centre of the camp – Bilbo decided to use to situation to his advantage.

If he climbed onto the wagon, Bilbo thought, the wagon would then take him away from the centre of the camp and he could get that much closer to the edge of the camp without being seen. It wasn't a perfect plan in any way, but he didn't have that many alternatives, choices, as the dwarf that had been supposed to guard him back in the tent might have well noticed his disappearance by now. For all Bilbo knew, the guard was already after him and Bilbo needed to put as much distance between his pursuers and himself as possible and as quickly as possible.

Without any further ado, Bilbo cut a hobbit-sized hole in the tent wall, slipped his arms outside and took a firm hold of the wooden side of the wagon that was right there but a feet from him. Silently and as quickly as he simply could, Bilbo then climbed onto the wagon under the white canvas that covered the back of the wagon. Doing a bit of a somersault, he landed onto the planks with a soft ”oomph”.

Slightly dazed, Bilbo held his breath, terrified that someone had noticed his daring move, but when no-one shouted anything or acknowledged his presence in anyway, he soon allowed himself to breath again.

Bilbo took note of his surroundings. There were several bunches of firewood on the wagon with him and every bunch seemed to have about twenty-five logs each, probably for the simple reason that the firewood would be easier to regulate and to move around – not that any of that currently really mattered to Bilbo (although the scent of pine all around him was very pleasant). There were also some empty baskets and other smaller items there on the wagon, but Bilbo didn't pay them much mind. Instead, he located his scalpel and took it in case it would become of use later and then crawled towards the front of the wagon to avoid getting knocked unconscious by all the heavy logs of firewood.

While the back of the wagon was low and built with the obvious intention of storing various items, the area right behind the driver's seat was just high enough for a lone dwarf – or a hobbit – to take cover and to sit in in case of particularly bad weather. The back of the dwarf that was driving the wagon was peeking from between the flaps in the front and Bilbo made his way quietly right behind that dwarf to hide among the crumpled piles of tent canvases.

From his new hiding place Bilbo could hear that the guards were still talking to the driver in Khuzdul.

”This is not personal,” one of the guards eventually changed the language to Westron. ”These are routine questions asked of anyone driving a wagon on the Main Road and we would appreciate it if you were to co-operate and to actually _answer_ them. We are simply doing our job, Lord Dain, and there is no reason to give us the silent treatment for that.”

The mention of _that name_ made Bilbo freeze to the spot. With dawning horror he looked at the dwarf in front of him more closely. Now that he knew to look for details, he saw several embroided symbols on the dwarf's clothes similar to the ones that Fili and Kili had had in their clothes. And yes, now that Bilbo paid it more attention, he could easily recognize the bulky back as Lord Dain's, that slightly hunched bearing was distinct and simply unmistakably, as were the hair clasps that bore the symbol of Dain's house.

For the longest moments, Bilbo could do nothing but stare at the dwarf's back in an uncomprehending manner. It was highly unlikely that he would climb onto that one wagon that was driven by _Dain Ironfoot_ , of all dwarves, but yet it had happened, it looked like luck hadn't been on his side after all. Bilbo could now clearly see that he should have paid more attention to the driver rather than to the wagon itself, but he had been so focused on the chance of arranging himself a ride that he hadn't even come to think of the possibility that he might well know the driver, that the driver might well know him. But, really, how could he have known that it would be _Dain_ driving the wagon? And why on Hobbiton _was_ Dain driving a wagon loaded with such mundane cargo as firewood in the first place?

”If you want to know what my cargo is and where I'm taking it,” said _Dain_ , and that voice – _that voice_ made Bilbo shiver, it made him think of black execution axes, of blood and death, it made him feel _sick_ , ”you can make your inquiries to my cousin, Prince Thorin, as I am acting on his orders, humiliating my task though may be.”

”There is nothing humiliating about transporting equipment,” said a deep voice as the other guard spoke. ”It is a respectable task. In any case, if you didn't want His Highness to punish you in this manner, my lord, you shouldn't have used the Rule of a Fool against your own kin.”

”I will not hear such condemning words from anyone below my status,” stated Dain, a sneer audible in his voice. ”I have my orders given to me by my king, that should answer all your inquiries. Now, step aside, or I will run you over.”

True to his words, Dain spurred the pony on while the two guards let out curses and hurried out of the wagon's way, judging from the sounds of it. Panicked, Bilbo realized that the wagon was yet again on the move while _he was still on that wagon with Dain_. He wanted desperately to jump off the wagon, to get away from Dain, but now he had no way of doing so without drawing attention to himself - while he had managed to climb onto the wagon without being detected, there was no way he could have jumped off it in the middle of the busy Main Road. Bilbo was trapped on the wagon and he had no choise but to wait until Dain came to a halt before he could try and escape this new trap of his.

For a long while, Bilbo was too terrified to even cry. He simply sat there, feeling slightly hysterical, hiding desperately behind the canvasses Dain was taking to who knew where.

Bilbo sat still, frozen to the spot, untill a ray of sunshine happened to find its way from between the flaps in the front. It hit the scalpel Bilbo was clenching in his fist and made the metal surface gleam in a beautiful manner. The gleam caught Bilbo's eye and the sight of the gleaming scalpel felt somehow grounding, the sight made him feel calmer - if it came down to a physical confrontation, he was still armed, at least (not that he was looking forward to harming anyone). Yes, the situation had just turned from dire to _extremely horrible_ with his being stuck on the wagon with Dain, but Bilbo wasn't yet dead or even captured so he still had a chance to see this through, no matter how small that chance currently appeared to be.

With this new found hope, Bilbo tried to come up with a plan. He was stuck on the wagon with Dain, yes, but perhaps he could use this situation to his advantage. He was situated behind Dain, after all, and he was armed with the scalpel, so he could well take Dain his hostage. In the addition of that, they were _on a wagon_ so Bilbo could simply threaten to cut Dain's hair off and Dain would have to drive wherever Bilbo wanted him to drive, so precious hair was to dwarves, Bilbo had learnt during the Quest. As the lord of the Iron Hills, Dain could leave the camp whenever he wanted to and so Bilbo could have Dain drive him all the way to the camp of elves. If he was very careful and remained hidden behind the flaps, no-one would even notice that he had made Dain his hostage. Dwarves would simply assume that Dain was on the wagon all by himself.

Bilbo licked his dry lips, trying to ignore how thirsty he was, and clenched the scalpel in his hand. Silently, he stood up and made his way from under the tent canvasses to Dain. Holding his breath, he slided his hand pass the flap and, with his clever – albeit slightly trembling – fingers, stripped Dain off the dagger that was hanging on his pompously decorated leather belt. Dain didn't seem to notice a thing, grumbling to himself as he was in Khuzdul with visible exasperation.

Bilbo put the scalpel down onto the ground, armed as he now was with the dagger. Without further ado, he then grasped a handful of Dain's hair and placed the dagger right underneath it, making sure that Dain could feel the cold blade against his neck. As the blade pressed against his skin, Dain gave a bit of a start, becoming aware of the unknown – armed – presense behind him.

”What in the name of-”

”Don't make a sound,” whispered Bilbo, cutting Dain's sentence off, just loud enough for Dain to hear. ”Keep your hands on the reins so that I can see them, don't try to use Iglishmêk if you value your hair.”

”My- my _hair_?”

”Yes, your hair.”

"Don't harm my hair!"

"I won't, if you don't give me a reason to."

”You're the hobbit, are you not,” said Dain in a strained voice and, upon looking over Dain's shoulder, Bilbo could see the dwarf clenching the reins tightly in his hands. ”I recognize your distinct scent as well as your voice. I understand how you might feel the need to punish me, but should you not still be resting in your tent, Master... uh, Master Halfling, if you don't mind me asking?”

Bilbo couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh at that. Resting? As if he could _rest_ with the shadow of execution hanging over him at all times.

”You have the gall to say something like that,” he seethed, tightening his grip on Dain's hair. ”You have _the gall_. And you don't even remember my name, not even after almost beheading me!”

Feeling Bilbo tightening his hold on his hair, Dain swallowed hard and shifted on his seat with visible nervousness.

”I- I do understand that you have reason to be somewhat upset with me at the moment, Master- uh, Master Bu- Master Ba- Be- Master Badger,” Dain said, ”but please, _please_ – I have already lost so much hair, _far too much hair_ , and I could not bare the humiliation of losing more. Whatever you do, _please_ don't cut any hair off.”

”If you don't want to lose your hair, Lord Dain,” said Bilbo, using the proper title of the dwarf, because he wasn't one to lose his manners, not even when being called ”Master Badger” by his would-be executioner, ”you'll do as I tell you to do.”

Dain didn't answer, but Bilbo could feel him swallowing hard.

”Very well,” the dwarf said eventually. ”I'll comply with you for now. Eru knows that I have lost enough hair by a fool's hand as it is.”

Bilbo didn't wonder Dain's words, focused on the situation at hand as he was. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest and he was so nervous about the deed he was doing that he had to swallow several times before he found his voice again.

”Good,” he finally managed. ”Good. Drive towards the edge of the camp then. And don't try to let anyone know that I'm here behind you. If you'll do, I _will_ use the dagger.”

True to his word, Dain did comply Bilbo in the fear of losing his hair, no matter how grudgingly he did so. He spurred the pony onwards and drove tha wagon along the Main Road straight towards the outermost circle of the camp.

Bilbo scarcely dared to breathe, terrified as he was that someone would notice something being amiss. Much to his surprise, however, none of the dwarves seemed to notice anything. Even though several curious glances were given to Dain, it almost looked like most of those glances were directed at Dain's braids, rather than his whole being, let alone his face where any an expression might have revealed his precarious situation. As it happened, no-one seemed to notice the lone hobbit either, the lone hobbit that stood right behind the dwarf lord, looking over Dain's shoulder, threatening Dain – and Dain's hair – with a dagger, and Bilbo and Dain managed to reach the edge of the camp without anyone calling the wagon to a halt, without anyone giving them one suspicious look.

”Are we to leave the camp?” asked Dain, startled, bringing the wagon to a halt when they reached the edge of the camp. ”Where are you taking me? What are you planning on doing to me?”

”Nothing, if you don't make me,” promised Bilbo.

His hands were starting to cramp for the way he had been clenching both of his fists for so long, one fist around Dain's hair, the other around the dagger. In the addition of that, he could feel his fever rising. He felt faint and cold and hot and oh so very, very thirsty.

”We're going to the camp of elves. Once we are there, I will set you free.”

”The camp of _elves_?” Dain cried, sounding scandalized. ”You wish to make my humiliation complete, halfling? You wish to show my state of disgrace to the _elves_?”

”I couldn't care less about your 'state of disgrace', whatever that means,” Bilbo lost his patience. ”I simply don't want to get executed and Thranduil's people will keep me from that fate.”

”Executed?” repeated Dain, ”Am I to understand that no-one has yet explained the situation to you? That you still believe that my cousin, Thorin, wishes to see you beheaded?”

The question was just as painful as the truth behind it and, in that moment, Bilbo hated Dain for asking it. He could feel tears prickle at his eyes, and as his both hands were occupied, he couldn't wipe them away and had no choise but to let them roll down his cheeks. 

”Drive onwards,” Bilbo told the dwarf instead of answering the questions, blinking the tears from his eyes in an angry manner – this was _the worst_ time to be crying, no question about it. ”Drive onwards and do not speak another word.”

Dain seemed to hesitate.

”Thorin doesn't want you executed,” he said, rather unexpectedly. ”It was all a misunderstanding. He asked me to 'take care of you', which I interpreted as an execution order when in truth Thorin was simply asking me to look after you.”

It looked like Dain was ready to say anything to get out of this uncomfortable situation. While Bilbo wished that Dain's words would have been true, he also knew better than to trust a dwarf that was being taken to elves at a dagger point. If he now believed Dain and turned back, he would probably find himself in an even more precarious situation than before, if at all possible.

”No-one is as foolish as to confuse an order to 'look after someone' with an execution order,” Bilbo told Dain with conviction, letting the dwarf thus know that he didn't believe a word of the panic-stricken explanation, of the _lies_.

The noise Dain let out was practically a squeak. Then the dwarf began to blabber about misunderstandings and execution orders and how it was _not_ necessary _at all_ to go to the elves because Bilbo would be ”quite safe” in the camp of dwarves. Dain even went as far as to apologize to Bilbo for almost beheading him.

”I'm in enough trouble as it is after using _the Rule of a Fool_ to try and get an heir,” Dain said hurriedly, as if afraid that his words could be cut off at any moment. ”If I were to also take you away from the camp when you are not yet healed, Thorin would-”

”I don't care what 'Thorin would',” lied Bilbo, interrupting Dain. ”All I care about right now is the fact that we're not yet moving even though I just told you to drive onwards.”

Bilbo knew well that someone _must have_ noticed his escape by now. It was most likely that there were several dwarves after him already and he simply didn't have the time to argue with Dain. The longer he allowed the wagon to stay still, the more likely it became that his pursuers would catch up with him. 

”I cannot let you leave,” Dain was insisting. ”I would be gravely punished if I let you go before Thorin had had his chance to speak with you.”

Without allowing himself much deliberation, Bilbo quickly cut one of Dain's braids off to demonstrate the fact that he was serious in his attempt to escape. The dwarf didn't seem to notice what had just happened until Bilbo dropped the loose braid into his lap. Bilbo allowed Dain to move his head a bit so that the dwarf could look at the loose braid in his lap.

Dain was silent for a moment.

”Then again,” he then said, ”Thorin is kin and I trust him to be merciful when mercy is due. I'll take you to the camp of elves, Master Badger, and then you'll let me go, unharmed. No more braids of mine shall be cut off.”

”Agreed,” said Bilbo, ”as long as you don't try anything...”

Grunting, Dain spurred the pony onwards and so the wagon left the camp of dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't turn out quite as I had hoped it would and I had planned on it being longer, but since it's been such a long time since my last update, I thought I'd give you a new chapter anyway, more or less dissatisfied though I may be with the final outcome. I hope you could still enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! They really motivate me to keep on writing and updating.


	13. Dwalin: Days Six and Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It turned out that Bilbo Baggins had ran away, yet again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm *so* sorry that it has taken me such a long time to update. My only excuse is that my studies have kept me busy and that I've had to write so much other stuff that my eyes really haven't thanked me for looking at the screen any more than I've been forced to. If you're still reading this story, I thank you for your patience.

_Day Six_

Dwalin had rarely seen Thorin as angry as the dwarf was when Ori told them of the way Dain had tried to fool Kili into joining his house. Mixed with all that anger, there was also barely concealed fear in his friend's eyes and Dwalin could easily tell that the mere idea of losing Kili was making Thorin quite distraught.

Dain had been in trouble with Thorin before, but now Thorin's anger had been taken to a new level – now that Dain had got one of Thorin's boys involved in this, there was no soothing Thorin, no holding him back. There was an air of wild fury around Thorin, he almost looked like a mountain bear protecting its young ones. Dwalin was quite certain that not even Balin would dare to try and defend Dain this time if Thorin decided to physically harm the dwarf.

”I will change the law as soon as I am crowned,” Thorin was currently swearing with as much vehemence as he seemed to be capable of in his weakened state. ”I will make it so that contracts and agreements are only binding when the people signing them are in full possession of their faculties and when there are at least two impartial witnesses present.”

”The Rule of a Fool is ancient,” Balin reminded him with reluctance, looking disdainful as if the words tasted bad in his mouth. ”There are many powerful dwarves who would not see it changed. Some merchants have built most of their trade around the Rule of a Fool.”

”Precisely,” hissed Thorin through gritted teeth. His knuckles were white from the way he clenched the edge of his blanket in his fists. ”The Rule of a Fool is all about exploitation! It's dishonourable! I do not approve of it. I will not tolerate it. As soon as I have the power to do so, I will see that _shameful_ law changed.”

The Rule of a Fool was an addition to the Law of Contracts and Agreements. Dwalin's knowledge of the subject wasn't nearly as comprehensive as his brother's, but even he knew the basics when it came to the Rule of a Fool.

Dwalin knew that the Rule of a Fool mentioned Foolers and Fools. The person who was trying to fool another to sign a contract was called a Fooler, while the person who would sign the contract of the Fooler was called a Fool. In the ancient times, dwarves had thought that stupidity deserved to be punished – if someone was foolish enough to sign a document that might potentially be harmful to them, they deserved and _needed_ to learn a lesson of cautiousness the hard way round. If the Fooler managed to fool the Fool into signing a document, the law was on the side of the Fooler, on the side of the person who had been clever or cunning enough to make the other person to sign the document, to teach the Fool a lesson.

There were, of course, a few exceptions to the Rule of a Fool. For one, the rule only applied to dwarves who were of age. In the addition of that, the Fooler wasn't allowed to use violence, threats or blackmail, or in any other way to force anyone to sign contracts. Contracts were only binding if the person signing them was doing so of their own free will, but Dwalin had heard of several cases in which the Fool had argued that they had been forced to sign the contract by the Fooler. The trouble was, it was often impossible for the Fool to try and prove that the Fooler had broken the law and so the law usually sided with the Fooler.

All in all, Dwalin considered the Rule of a Fool senseless, complicated and cruel.

”If it ain't fair and just, it shouldn't be a law either,” he now muttered, sprawled on his back on a roll mat that had been fetched for him after he had announced that he would prefer to stay in Thorin's tent to keep his cousin some company (or, rather, to have his cousin to keep _him_ some company while he waited for sleep to claim him).

”I'm sure,” said Balin, frowning first at Dwalin, then at Thorin, ”that _we_ are among those who _would_ see the law changed, but that doesn't change the fact that many influential dwarves would oppose the change without hesitation. You shouldn't begin your reign with too many drastic changes, Thorin, or your reign might come to a tragic end sooner rather than later.”

Dwalin couldn't stifle the prick of worry his brother's words created in him and he glanced at their cousin, frowning. He had learnt to heed on Balin's advice, Balin was as wise and intelligent as he was intuitive. Balin was good at seeing the wide picture, unlike Thorin who rarely stopped to think of what kind of consequences his actions would have. Dwalin did wish for the Rule of a Fool to get changed as soon as possible, but if Balin warned against rapid changes, Dwalin listened to his brother – neither one of them wanted any harm to come to Thorin, after all.

Thorin, however, didn't seem worried for his own sake.

”The Rule of a Fool I will change as soon as I have the power to do so,” he repeated in a low, steady voice, as stubborn and prideful as ever.

”Changes should be done _gradually_ , laddie,” Balin still dared to try after a moment of silence, but Thorin had already made his mind up and all there was left for Balin to do was to shake his head and sigh in a resigned manner.

Thorin sent for Dain then, but it took the guards such a long time to bring the lord into Thorin's tent that Dwalin, exhausted, fell asleep on his roll mat before he could see the exchange between Thorin and Dain. He snored through the entire meeting, but he dreamt of thunder storms, roaring bears and terrified peasants which he later assumed was some kind of a reflection on what had been happening around him while he had slept.

* * *

_Day Seven_

When Dwalin came to after having slept through an entire day and night, it wasn't yet quite midday, sunny though it otherwise appeared to be. He yawned and scratched his belly, blinking sleep from his eyes. He was used to getting up fast – unlike Balin who liked to sleep late whenever he got the rare opportunity to do so, Dwalin had never seen the point of lingering in bed after waking up – and so he was soon standing by Thorin's bed, fully clothed, eating the gruel someone had left on the bedside table for him (well, the gruel had probably been left there for Thorin, but Dwalin had never been one for semantics).

Thorin was sitting up on his bed, writing something furiously on a parchment that had been placed on his lap on a wooden writing board. When Dwalin glanced down at the parchment in between spooning up the gruel, he saw that Thorin was making drafts for the law that would replace the Rule of a Fool. Unsurprised, Dwalin sighed to himself. It was obvious that Thorin was once again tasking himself far too hard, but Dwalin didn't really know what to say to his cousin – had there been an orc trying to attack Thorin, Dwalin wouldn't have hesitated to put himself between Thorin and the blade, but when it was Thorin himself that was causing Thorin harm... well, Dwalin didn't know how he should have dealt with that. Thorin could be difficult like that at times.

”The entire point of you lying on that bed is that you should be resting,” Dwalin eventually grumbled when he couldn't think of anything else to say.

”Morning greetings to you too,” said Thorin drily, not even glancing up from the parchments.

Dwalin tried to think of something else to say, but his brain hadn't yet caught up with his body and appeared to still be somewhat asleep. He wanted to ask about the situation with Dain, but didn't want to upset Thorin needlessly by reminding him of whatever had happened between the two cousins.

By the time he had finished Thorin's gruel, he was nevertheless ready to form his next sentence.

”Have you been resting at all during the time I've been asleep?”

Thorin snorted.

”How could I have when there has been a wild boar snoring in my tent since yesterday morning.”

Dwalin frowned and put the empty bowl onto the bedside table.

”If you didn't sleep,” he said, ”you should have woken me up so that we could have changed places. I was the one that actually rested so I could have put your bed to good use instead of just sitting on it like it were a _chair_ as you have done.”

He didn't really mean his words, he wouldn't have taken an injured Thorin's bed even if offered, but Dwalin wasn't above making Thorin feel guilty in order to get him abide to his wish, to make him rest.

Sadly, the ruse didn't work, not this time.

”I need to finish this,” Thorin grunted, referring apparently to his writing, not even bothering to look at Dwalin, ”so why don't you just go back to sleep, Dwalin, or to _Rivendell_ , or wherever your feet will take you, and let me work in peace.”

”No need to be rude,” said Dwalin with a frown, poking the candle on the bedside table with his forefinger to have something to do with his hands. ”And yes, I do agree that you will need to finish that, but you don't have to do it at this instant. In fact, it will be weeks before the crowning ceremonies will be held and you have till then to finish all that. There's nothing you can do to the Rule of a Fool before you have the crown on your head, Thorin, so you might as well rest for a while and-”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say since the quill in Thorin's hand – clenched fist, as it now was – snapped in half and Thorin turned his blazing eyes to Dwalin (who wasn't a coward in any sense but still couldn't help but blink and swallow at the intensity that was aimed solely at him).

”I _am aware_ of my limitations,” said Thorin, his voice low and cold as ice. ”There is no need for you to remind me of my helplessness, of my- of my _inabilities_. I've almost lost Kili _twice_ in less than a fortnight, once by the blade of a filthy orc, once by my own cousin due to this _pathetic_ excuse of a law. My nephew was saved on both occasions, but it pains me to think that there might be other uncles who have lost their nephews and nieces because of this law. It is truly the Rule of a Fool, but fools are the ones that use the law to exploit others, not the ones that have been exploited – my Kili is _no fool_ and anyone who claims otherwise will answer to me! It is my duty to see this so called 'law' changed as soon as possible. I cannot find peace until I have done so.”

Thorin's eyes had an odd shine to them and it wasn't until now that Dwalin noted the way Thorin's face was glowing, the way drops of sweat were rolling down his forehead, the way he seemed to have difficulties in focusing his gaze on any one spot for longer periods of time.

”Your fever is rising again,” said Dwalin with frustration, ignoring – for the time being – the little speech Thorin had just given. ”Is no-one looking after you when I'm sleeping or otherwise occupied? Nevertheless, I better go get Oin. And you better put your head on that pillow and close your eyes, you dolt – you wouldn't want your nephews to lose their uncle to fever, would you.”

Dwalin found Oin in Bilbo's tent a few minutes later, and since the hobbit didn't yet show any signs of regaining consciousness, Oin followed Dwalin out of the tent after adding some firewood into the stove and after putting the larger one of his healer's bags under Bilbo's bed where it would be easy for the healers to find if needed.

It was but moments after Dwalin and Oin had exited the tent that Bilbo came to, but the dwarves weren't there to see it and so they remained unaware of the change in Bilbo's condition.

* * *

Oin was even less impressed with Thorin's wish to work than Dwalin had been. As soon as the old healer saw Thorin sitting up on the bed, he began to huff, and by the time he was close enough, he snatched the broken quill from Thorin and ordered Dwalin to take the parchments out of Thorin's sight. While Dwalin was happy to do just this, Oin let Thorin know what he thought of the dwarf's behaviour.

”Such foolishness,” Oin declared. ”All the trouble that I have been through to keep you alive, to help you to get better – and you decide to waste all that, to risk your health time and a time again. Did I not tell you to lie on your back, Thorin, to stay still? I did! And what do I find when I come back? I find you sitting up and working! I have already told you that I have better things to do than to spend my time by arguing with you. I have other patients, other duties, but yet you keep on wasting my time with your antics. You are just as foolish, unruly and stubborn now as you were when you were but a twenty-year-old dwarfling.”

”I am nothing like that anymore,” argued Thorin, clearly offended, and Oin used this opportunity to put a spoon full of medicine into his open mouth, causing Thorin to give a bit of a startled cough at the (most likely) bitter, disgusting taste.

While Thorin and Oin argued whether or not Thorin was well enough to do something other than to rest on his back, Dwalin felt the nature calling and left the tent for a visit to the disposal pits, trusting Oin to look after Thorin for the time being.

After he was finished with his business at the pits, Dwalin buckled his belt and went to see if he could find some more food for himself as well as for Thorin. Gruel was nourishing enough, but one bowl of it hadn't been enough to satisfy his hunger and he doubted Thorin had eaten much of anything either.

On his way to the cooking area near Dain's tent, which was located on the other side of the clearing opposite of Thorin's tent, Dwalin ran into Nori. After exchanging morning greetings, they decided to go to a more private area next to the makeshift stables to exchange news. Once there, Dwalin told Nori of Thorin's condition, after which Nori told Dwalin of what had happened between Thorin and Dain the previous morning. Even though Nori hadn't been supposed to be in that meeting in the first place, he was apparently somehow well aware of everything that had taken place and could even give Dwalin some details – for once Nori's abilities to sneak around unnoticed had been of use to Dwalin, too.

Although Dain hadn't committed a crime when he had tried to coax Kili into joining his house, Thorin – according to Nori – considered his deeds a betrayal which didn't surprise Dwalin in the least. As far as Dwalin himself was concerned, Dain truly _had_ betrayed Thorin by trying to take Kili from him. Thorin had lost enough during his lifetime as it was and Dain must have known how dear Fili and Kili were to Thorin, how beloved and adored the boys were by their uncle. In Dwalin's mind, there was no excuse for Dain's deeds.

It looked like Thorin had agreed with Dwalin, as Nori now told Dwalin that the dwarf had ordered Dain to pay for his betrayal with manual labour. While manual labour itself wasn't shameful in any way – quite the opposite, in fact – it was a well known fact that the Lord of the Iron Hills despised work that required him to strain himself. Dain had never shyed from voicing his opinion of the fact that he considered all those who laboured manually beneath him. He had never seemed to understand why Thorin had ”lowered” himself to work as a simple blacksmith in the villages of men, not even after Balin had explained to him that the settlement in Ered Luin was in need of food, clothes, medicine, equipment – money, to put it simply – and that the good example Thorin set to his dwarves as well as his workforce were both desperately needed. In any case, to punish Dain with manual labour was as dire a consequence as Thorin could have possibly given to his cousin over his recent actions.

It was with these thoughts that Dwalin parted from Nori, giving the dwarf a few friendly, rather awkward pats on the shoulder, after which he headed once more towards the cooking areas.

Some time later when Dwalin approached Thorin's tent with a suitable amount of food on his arms, he was met by a sight of Oin shouting at the two guards in front of Bilbo's tent. The guards – Gamur and Pimur, sons of Mur, good lads the both of them, a few decades older than Fili and Kili, their hair red like fire – looked startled and so very ashamed that Dwalin knew in an instant that something was wrong.

Dwalin marched to Oin, doing his best to ignore the distracting scent of bacon that floated into his nostrils from the bundle on his arms, and came to a halt in front of the three dwarves, towering over them expectantly. He didn't have to ask what was going on, for as soon as he was noticed by the old healer, Oin turned to him and began to explain the situation in a rather worried, albeit exasperated manner.

It turned out that Bilbo Baggins had ran away, yet again.

For a short moment, Dwalin simply stared at Oin, not quite grasping the meaning of the healer's words, while Gamur and Pimur stared at their feet, shame-faced. With a deep growl, Dwalin then turned to the tent, swiped the tent flaps aside with one impatient move of his arm and entered Bilbo's tent with the sole purpose of seeing for himself if Bilbo Baggins had truly run away, _yet again_.

Oin and the two guards were quick to follow after him.

It only took Dwalin one quick glance to determine that Bilbo Baggins really wasn't in the tent. There was nothing in the tent but the embers in the stove and the abandoned bed with the contents of Oin's overturned healer's bag scattered over the crumpled sheets. Bilbo's clothes had disappeared from the drying rack and even the mithril shirt was gone from the bedside table.

As soon as these realizations sunk in – as soon as he became convinced that, yes, Bilbo had, indeed, run away _again_ – Dwalin let out a litany of his strongest cursewords, causing both sons of Mur to wince, while Oin went to the bed to gather his equipment from the bed.

Pimur cleared his throat, looking at Dwalin pleadingly.

”We _would_ have noticed if a hobbit – or anyone – had went pass by us, Sir,” he said quietly but with conviction.

”That so?” Dwalin's words were barely more than a growl, with such frustration he was gritting his teeth.

”Yes, Sir,” Gamur hurried to agree with his brother, already looking about the tent in a slightly desperate manner. ”Master Hobbit did not go pass by us. He _must_ have found another way out.”

”Find this 'another way', then,” Dwalin ordered and the sons of Mur scurried to do just that, both of them hurrying to inspect the tent walls and the ground as if assuming that Bilbo might have dug a hole somewhere.

Dwalin was worried for Bilbo and beyond frustrated for the way the feverish hobbit had been let to slip away after all the trouble Dwalin had been through to bring him back to safety, to Oin's professional – if somewhat curt – care. Dwalin was worried for Thorin's sake as well and feared how the cousin would react if he was to hear that Bilbo had gone missing once more. Thorin was in no condition to go looking for missing hobbits, he had been put through enough stress already in the recent days as his deteriorated condition well proved, but if Thorin heard of Bilbo's disappearance, he would disregard his own health in order to look for his friend.

Thorin would feel responsible, Thorin wouldn't listen to reason, Thorin wouldn't think of consequences.

” _Elven poets and lustful kisses of rotten orcs!_ ” Dwalin swore in Khuzdul with feeling, kicking the drying rack. The rack hit the ground some yards away with a satisfying crash, making Gamur, Pimur and Oin all give a start, but Dwalin's mind wasn't focused on that. No, all Dwalin could think of was the way he would have to keep Bilbo's disappearance from Thorin _again_ , for Thorin's sake.

This time, Dwalin knew, he was going to lose his braids – though his hair was currently the last thing on his mind, in all honesty.

” _Blunt daggers and rusty axes..._ ”

Gathering himself, Dwalin tried to push his emotions to the back of his mind to focus on the situation at hand. Taking a few calming breaths, he pressed a hand onto his side pocket. The magic ring he had taken from Bilbo for safekeeping was still thankfully in his pocket, he could feel its shape through the fabric. Slipping two fingers into his pocket, Dwalin felt the smooth, cool metal. It felt important to use his sense of touch to confirm the fact that the Ring was still in his possession. It was _his_ to guard, after all. He didn't want to lose it.

As the Ring was in his pocket, Dwalin could now conclude that Bilbo was still visible which meant that it was possible for dwarves to see and to locate their missing hobbit.

They had at least something on their side, it appeared.

”Master Dwalin, Sir,” young Pimur called just then from the back of the tent. ”I know how Master Hobbit left the tent – there's a cut in the canvas here, large enough for a hobbit to slip through.”

There was, indeed, a cut in the back wall of the tent, just big enough for someone of Bilbo's size to slip through. The canvas had been cut with something sharp, Dwalin noted with foreboding, since the cut was clean and as the fabric hadn't yet unraveled. A cut like this couldn't have been made with a piece of broken glass or with some kind of a blunt piece of metal.

”The scalpel has disappeared from my healer's bag,” said Oin, studying the cut in the canvas, before exchanging a wary glance with Dwalin. ”Bilbo must have found it and taken it with him. I believe he used my scalpel to make this cut.”

That sounded plausible enough.

”Looks like Baggins has managed to arm himself,” Dwalin grumbled with growing frustration, feeling like punching Dain, and not for the first – or the last – time.

”He's armed?” said Gamur, sounding startled. ”Should we... should we take further precautions, Sir? Is Master Baggins dangerous?”

”What do you think?” snapped Dwalin, losing his patience – he was yet to even eat a proper breakfast, and really, he took a bit of a nap and first Thorin's condition deteriorated and then Bilbo decided to disappear yet again – was he not allowed to sleep anymore! ”Baggins is scared for his life, he's _desperate_ and armed with an object that's primary function is to cut bodies open, so you can bet your hairless ass that Baggins is currently _the most dangerous_ person in this entire camp.”

With that, Dwalin began to take action as Thorin's Most Trusted Warrior should.

”Oin,” he said, ”give me an update on Bilbo's condition. How ill is he?”

Oin frowned in thought.

”I was able to bring his fever down a bit,” he said, ”but I would assume that it would spike up again now that he believes that he is running for his life. The wounds on his face and legs were infected and the infections will only get worse now that he's no longer under my care. There is a high chance of dehydration and frostbite, and his head wound still worries me. The faster you get him back here, the better.”

Dwalin gave a nod and thrust the bundle of food on his arms to Oin.

”Have someone take this to Thorin, will you,” he asked. ”I ate his gruel and he must be hungry by now. If he asks, tell him that I'm with Baggins, but don't give him any details. Under no circumstances let him know that Baggins has gone missing. If need be, give Thorin something to make him fall asleep. I will take full responsibility later. Go to Balin as soon as you can and tell him of Baggins' situation. He will know what to do.”

With his arms now empty, Dwalin turned to the sons of Mur, motioning for them to follow him.

”You two come with me. We will try to track Baggins down.”

* * *

The entrance Bilbo had cut in the tent canvas was just big enough for a hobbit like Bilbo but too small for a dwarf as bulky and muscular as Dwalin, and so it happened that Dwalin could only fit his head through the cut but couldn't force his shoulders through until Pimur took a knife and made the cut large enough for all of Dwalin to slip through it.

With a lot of swearing and cursing, Dwalin managed to crawl outside, the tent swaying a bit due to his movement. The sun was shining and the white snow was so blinding that he had to squint as he scrambled up to his feet. There was a cooking area behind Bilbo's tent and Dwalin was now well aware of the way the cooks were all staring at him – apparently it was somewhat unexpected that Prince Thorin's Most Trusted Warrior – the imposing Dwalin, son of Fundin himself – would suddenly appear before them. The cooks had probably been alerted by Dwalin's loud curses and had thus seen the way he had been stuck in the tent wall for some moments.

By this point, both Pimur and Gamur had exited the tent after Dwalin and so Dwalin now gave Pimur a curt order to go and question the startled cooks on whether or not they had noticed any hobbits that day. He assumed that the cooks hadn't noticed anything but the contents of their pots and pans, but if he wasn't thorough now, he might well find himself regretting it later.

Pimur did as he was told, while Dwalin focused his attention on the snowy ground. There were clear signs that someone had been crawling on the snow, it was as if a giant worm had been by, leaving a path on its way. It didn't take much power of deduction to conclude that Bilbo had been using the cover of the snowdrifts as he had crawled away from his tent.

Worry gnawed at Dwalin, frustrated though he was as well. Bilbo was bound to be wet and freezing after such crawling, Bilbo's condition could be growing steadily more critical by the moment. The hobbit needed to be found fast so that Oin could take good care of him.

Quelling down his emotions, Dwalin motioned for Gamur to follow after him, as he began to jog along the trail Bilbo had left behind.

The trail led to one of the tents of Dain's warriors. There was a hobbit-sized cut in the canvas of the tent, similar to the one that Bilbo had made in his own tent, and Dwalin used this new entrance to crawl inside (after using his dagger to make the cut somewhat larger to fit through it). Inside the tent, Dwalin found Bilbo's wet trousers disregarded on one of the cots which made him wonder whether Bilbo was running around the camp without any trousers on – a half-naked hobbit in a camp of dwarves, that should draw some attention.

Someone was bound to find Bilbo sooner rather than later. Dwalin could only hope that Bilbo wouldn't feel desperate enough to attack anyone with the scalpel.

There was another cut on the opposite side of the tent, and it soon became obvious that Bilbo had used the cover of tents to get further away from his own tent. He had sneaked into a tent after tent, leaving only a trail of distinct footprints and the cuts in the tent walls after him. Dwalin couldn't help but wonder, impressed, whether all hobbits were as clever and resourceful as their hobbit or whether Bilbo was above average when it came to cleverness and hobbits. In any case, Dwalin now proceeded to follow after his missing friend with Gamur trailing after him in an attentive manner.

Tent after tent Dwalin followed after Bilbo, determined to get the hobbit back to the healing tent as soon as possible. He passed through more tents than he cared to count, _most_ of them currently unoccupied, though Dwalin managed to interrupt some rather private moments as well. He even startled a few lovers in the peak of their passion by poking his dagger through the canvas wall in a quite literal sense.

_(Grut and Lipki were very much in love. Since they both had a break from their chores at the same time, they decided to spent the time together in their tent. As soon as they entered their tent, their lips pressed together in a passionate kiss, and tunic after tunic they undressed each other._

_At the peak of their passion, a grumbling noise could suddenly be heard in the next tent, followed soon by some cursing. All of a sudden a blade of a dagger was poked through the tent canvas, and before neither Grut or Lipki had time to even give a start, His Highness' Most Trusted Warrior, second son of Fundin, Dwalin Gurundhin – The One Who Doesn't Give Up – crawled unexpectedly into the tent, all the while swearing, a dagger in one hand, a pair of wet trousers in the other._

_Dwalin, second son of Fundin, brother of Balin, cousin of Thorin Oakenshield, scrambled up to his feet, smoothed down his clothes and gave Grut and Lipki an acknowledging nod._

_”Afternoon greetings,” he said with a bit of a bow, before marching pass by Grut and Lipki to the opposite wall, a heavily armed, blushing guard following closely after him._

_As Grut and Lipki watched, too stunned to return to the greeting or to even unwind their entwined bodies, his lordship Dwalin slashed the tent canvas and crawled out of the tent with the young guard, the wet trousers trailing along the ground after him._

_Once the two dwarves had disappeared and Dwalin's curse words were no longer audible, Lipki and Grut closed their gaping mouths and turned to look at each other._

_”What was that?” they both asked, but neither had the answer.)_

Finally Dwalin and Gimur reached the last tent of the row, and when they crawled out of the tent, they found themselves in the Main Road where several curious glances were given to Dwalin who ignored all the attention he was being given.

”Where did Master Hobbit go from here?” Gamur wondered out loud, but Dwalin had no answer.

He soon crawled back inside the tent and then outside again, studying the ground with a close eye. It looked like the hobbit's trail ended right there at the last entrance he had cut for himself, but obviously Bilbo had to have went somewhere from there, even if Dwalin had yet no idea where he had gone to. If Bilbo had dared to walk on the Main Road, surely someone would have seen him? Surely Dwalin would have somehow been informed of it by now?

Who knows how long Dwalin might have lingered there, bewildered and frustrated, hadn't a group of riders unexpectedly approached him along the Main Road. Dwalin was initially too occupied with Bilbo's footprints to pay the riders much mind, despite of the way all the other dwarves in the Main Road moved aside to allow the ponies to pass, but as soon as the riders noticed Dwalin standing there staring at the ground, they brought their ponies to a halt by him which was enough to alert him of their presence.

Dwalin looked up and saw Balin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Nori and two guards he had seen before but didn't know by name sitting on their ponies, grim-faced and visibly troubled, looking down at him. Bofur and Gloin kept shifting on their saddles impatiently as if eager to keep on riding onwards, while the other riders were frowning in a worried, angry manner.

”I assume that you've heard that Baggins has gone missing,” said Dwalin, going straight to the point as was characteristic to him.

”We have,” said Balin, wincing. ”We are now looking for him, brother, and you better come with us.”

”I'm following his tracks already,” said Dwalin, gesturing to the ground. ”I know he was here at some point.”

Balin gave the ground a passing, absent-minded look as if Bilbo's tracks were of little interest to him. Dwarves in the Main Road were giving the small group curious glances and Balin gestured Dwalin to come closer. Once Dwalin was close enough, Balin bent down on the saddle and said in a low voice as if to keep the other dwarves from hearing, ”We have reason to believe that Bilbo is no longer in the camp.”

”What kind of reason?” asked Dwalin, keeping his voice just as low, looking searchingly in his brother's eyes.

”Bilbo's been abducted,” Gloin put in hotly, ignoring the admonishing look Balin gave him for his words. ”The bastard couldn't take his punishment and so he took the cart and kidnapped Bilbo and left the camp with him.”

It turned out that Bilbo hadn't been the only one to disappear that day: Not too long after Oin had told Balin of Bilbo's disappearance, reports had come in informing Balin that Dain Ironfoot had been seen leaving the camp. Someone had apparently seen Dain driving a wagon out of the camp, towards the camp of elves, and since it wasn't wise for anyone to leave the safety of the camp alone by themselves, worried onlookers had decided to report the matter to the guards who had then come to tell Balin that the lord of the Iron Hills had driven away.

Balin had then put one and one together and come to the conclusion that Bilbo and Dain's simultaneous disappearances might well have something to do with each other.

”Can it be a coincidence that Dain decides to leave the camp just as Bilbo disappears?” Nori said darkly. ”I could bet all my hair that Dain leaving the camp has something to do with Bilbo.”

”Bilbo might have encountered Dain at some point during his escape and things could have escalated from there,” Bofur agreed. ”To me, it looks like Dain blames Bilbo for his unpleasant situation and so he took the opportunity to take revenge on Bilbo.”

They were both talking quietly as to make sure that they weren't overheard – Dain's dwarves all around them wouldn't have taken kindly to someone accusing their lord of kidnapping.

”We do not yet know for certain what happened,” Balin reminded them all, ”and we shouldn't condemn anyone before we do. Our first priority is to now locate Bilbo and Dain and to find out what happened.”

” _Buzun-ghar_ ,” said Bifur which probably meant that he agreed with Balin, even though the direct translation of his words would have actually been ”foot cave”.

Dwalin turned his attention back to the ground, back to Bilbo's footprints. He studied the ground with a careful eye. A wagon had come to a halt by the tent, that much was clear from the tracks, but he hadn't paid the fact any mind before now. Could it be that the wagon that had halted here had been Dain Ironfoot's? Could it be that Ironfoot had noticed Bilbo peeking from the tent and had thus brought his wagon to a halt by the tent? Had Dain forced Bilbo onto the wagon? Considering that Bilbo was ill and scared, it might not have been too difficult for Dain to use his stronger form to force Bilbo onto the wagon despite of the scalpel Bilbo had armed himself with, but if that had happened, surely someone would have noticed something. There would have been quite a lot of witnesses on the Main Road, after all.

”We should be moving already,” said Bofur in an uncharacteristically impatient manner, tapping his fingers against his thigh. ”The longer we stay here, the longer Bilbo will be alone with Dain.”

”That bastard has abducted our hobbit,” Gloin spat on the ground.

By Balin's order, one of the two unfamiliar guards dismounted her pony and allowed Dwalin to take the reins. Dwalin quickly mounted, advising simultaneously Gamur and the female guard to continue the search of Bilbo on the Main Road, just in case Balin's knowledge of Bilbo's whereabouts would turn out to be false.

A minute later, Dwalin and the other six dwarves were riding after Bilbo and Dain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've almost finished the next chapter so it shouldn't take too long for me to update it.


	14. Bilbo: Day Seven - Approaching Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It did seem, in all actuality, that Dain really thought that Bilbo was a simpleton."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! I'm sorry I haven't answered to you, but it's because you've let me know that you're reading this fic that I'm still determined to continue writing it. I hope this chapter makes up for the way I've let your comments unanswered.

_Day Seven_

Bilbo and Dain drove in silence for what felt like hours but only could have been one hour, at most. Had it not been as snowy as it was, they would have reached the camp of elves by now, but since there were high snowdrifts between the camp of dwarves and the camp of elves, Bilbo and Dain had to weave their way towards their destination which wasn't an easy task at all as one of them was driving the wagon by dagger point and the other was feverish and barely able to stand on the moving wagon.

”Master Badger,” Dain tried to begin a conversation for the fifth time, clearing his throat. ”You have misunderstood me. I am not the monster you believe me to be.”

Bilbo, dizzy and uncomfortable as he was, didn't feel like talking.

When he didn't answer, Dain sighed and tried once more, ”In all truthfulness, I am rather _fond_ of your kind.”

”Are you?” Bilbo couldn't help but ask in a rather doubtful manner, for he hadn't known that Dain had met other hobbits before him.

”Yes, indeed I am,” said Dain, encouraged by the way Bilbo had finally answered to him. ”Your kind is treasured in the Iron Hills.”

”I don't think there are any hobbits living in the Iron Hills. I would have heard of it if there were. Someone would have told me.”

”Oh no, no, Master Badger,” Dain said and Bilbo could hear the way he licked his lips in a nervous manner. ”You misunderstood me again – I didn't mean _halflings_ when I spoke of your kind. I meant your _kind_ , beings _similar_ to you.”

__”My kind,” Bilbo repeated slowly. ”What other kind am I but a hobbit?”_ _

__”A simpleton,” said Dain matter-of-factly, ”of course.”_ _

A simpleton. The word echoed in Bilbo's feverish mind. A simpleton. Dain thought that he was a... _simpleton_? 

__”But worry not,” continued Dain. ”I accept you and your kind just the way you are. You will not be scorned by me, quite the opposite. Tell you what, Master Badger, if you let me go, I shall give you an entire bag full of buttons.”_ _

__”Er, buttons?”_ _

Dain seemed to mistake Bilbo's bewilderment for disbelief, for he assured, ”Yes, Master Badger, _an entire bag _full of _buttons_ , all just for you. You could have them all, they would be yours _to keep_.” __

____”And why would I want a bag full of... buttons?”_ _ _ _

____”I know that your kind likes buttons,” said Dain. ”Many a time I have seen simpletons just as yourself occupied for hours by buttons. You find them fascinating, do you not. The round shape, the holes in the middle... I promise you, Master Badger, if you let me go now, I shall give you all the buttons you can dream of.”_ _ _ _

____It did seem, in all actuality, that Dain really thought that Bilbo was a simpleton. The idea was as insulting as it was ridiculous, but Bilbo couldn't help but be also somewhat amused. No-one had ever before considered his mind anything but quick and sharp. Simpleton was something he had never before been called. It was oddly refreshing, unflattering though it also may have been._ _ _ _

”My name is _Baggins_ , Lord Dain,” Bilbo said, ”and if you think that I'm a simpleton, what does it tell of you dwarves that I have managed to escape from you twice by now, that I'm currently holding one of you hostage and that you haven't yet managed to take my life despite of your efforts to do just that?” 

____The question seemed to caught Dain off guard, for it took quite a bit of stuttering for the dwarf to form an answer._ _ _ _

____”You wear no shoes,” the dwarf eventually said with emphasis as if that would have explained everything. ”You ran into the battle without any shoes on. What else could you be but a simpleton?”_ _ _ _

”A hobbit,” came Bilbo's answer. ”I am a _hobbit_ and we hobbits don't need shoes. Our feet are not as _tiny_ as yours and our toes are not so _delicate_ that they would have to be protected with _footwear_.” 

____Bilbo had rarely ever spoken to anyone in such a rude manner and had his face not already been flushed with the fever, it would have now reddened from shame: Dain had tried to execute him, yes, and Bilbo might have been scared and ill, but that didn't give Bilbo the justification to be mean to the person he had kidnapped – it was bad enough for Dain that he would never have proper feet, there really had been no need for Bilbo to remind the dwarf of that fact, not even under the circumstances._ _ _ _

____”I'm sorry,” Bilbo said softly, for it would have bothered him had he not said it. ”That was uncalled for. I shouldn't have said that about your feet.”_ _ _ _

____Dain didn't seem to know what to say to that and so silence fell over them._ _ _ _

____Their progress was slow and a couple of times one of the wheels of the wagon got stuck in the snow, but the sturdy pony was young and strong and she always managed to pull them free. Onwards they drove, onwards, towards the elven tents that could be seen in the distance as a colourful patch on the otherwise white landscape._ _ _ _

____Bilbo expected to hear noises of a pursue – approaching hooves, angry shouts, orders for them to stop – from behind the wagon at any given moment, but none came, no-one shouted, no-one called for them to stop. So far it had looked like no-one was yet after him. It looked like the dwarves hadn't yet found the tracks of the wagon, although Bilbo was quite certain that his disappearance must have been noticed by now._ _ _ _

____The dwarves had to be looking for him already and it was only a matter of time till they would put one and one together and conclude that Bilbo must have taken Dain his hostage since they both had gone missing around the same time. Once they would realize that Bilbo had kidnapped Dain, they would come to think of Dain's wagon and, after that, it would be easy for them to find the wagon tracks at the edge of the camp and to follow them. Now – Bilbo thought anxiously – it was only a question of whether he would reach the safety of the elven camp before the dwarves would catch up with him._ _ _ _

____The snow shined in the sunlight and Bilbo had to squint and eventually close his eyes for the brightness of it all hurt them. He could keep his eyes closed for a bit, he reasoned, because Dain wouldn't be able to tell that he had closed them and would thus naturally assume that Bilbo was keeping a close eye on him and their surroundings._ _ _ _

____”How fare Fili and Kili?” Bilbo heard himself asking. ”Do they still live?”_ _ _ _

____”They do,” answered Dain after a moment of silence. ”The younger one seemed well enough when I... spoke to him yesterday.”_ _ _ _

____”And Fili?”_ _ _ _

____”The older one hadn't yet woken up.”_ _ _ _

____Bilbo inhaled shakily, trying to assure himself that Fili and Kili were getting steadily better, that both princes would yet live to reach old age._ _ _ _

____”What about the others? What about the other members of Th- the Company?”_ _ _ _

____”All survived the Battle. All of them are fine.”_ _ _ _

____Bilbo didn't know if Dain was speaking the truth, but so desperately he wanted for the members of the Company to fare well that he was willing to believe Dain's word this once, as little as he trusted the dwarf himself._ _ _ _

____”We could always turn back,” Dain suggested, clearing his throat. ”We could turn back and you could see your friends yourself.”_ _ _ _

____”I no longer consider any a dwarf my friend,” lied Bilbo because he was _not_ going to go back to the dwarven camp, he would not place himself willingly in the mercy of dwarves ever again._ _ _ _

____Anger and sadness found their way to the surface and for a moment all Bilbo's thoughts were of the way his friends had abandoned him, of the way they had turned their backs on him, of the way Thorin wanted him dead. He had only ever tried to protect his friends – it was wrong of Thorin to want him executed for that. It was unfair, it was injustice._ _ _ _

____Perhaps, Bilbo thought sadly, perhaps if he hadn't done what he had, Fili and Kili would have both perished. Perhaps more people would have been killed if he hadn't done his best to mediate between dwarves, elves and men. Losing the friendship of dwarves had been the price he had had to pay to keep his friends alive, and while it hurt – oh, how it hurt – Bilbo knew that under similar circumstances, he would have done it all again._ _ _ _

____Tears prickled his closed eyes and Bilbo had to sniff. He sniffed as quietly as he could to prevent Dain from hearing it._ _ _ _

____Bilbo grew steadily dizzier as time went by, untill he eventually felt like he was standing by will power alone. Thankfully though, Dain couldn't see him and thus he couldn't tell how bad Bilbo's condition actually was. Had Dain known any of that, he might have used the situation to his advantage – he could have overpowered Bilbo and taken him back to the camp of dwarves, Bilbo thought tiredly, tightening his hold on Dain's hair once more, causing the dwarf to wince._ _ _ _

____Unexpectedly, after the umpteenth time the pony had pulled them free from a particularly deep pothole, Dain swore._ _ _ _

”By my hairy toes,” he muttered. ” _Must_ they send an envoy to welcome us? _Must_ they draw _even more_ attention to me? This is humiliating enough as it is.” 

____Bilbo blinked to clear his blurry vision and tried to focus his gaze. After a bit of squinting and peeking from between the flaps in the front, he managed to see what had prompted Dain's words._ _ _ _

____There was a group of riders coming towards them from the direction of the camp of elves. The group consisted of big folk, most likely of elves, although the riders were still too far for Bilbo to study their features more carefully and so he couldn't be quite certain of whether they were elves or men. The clothes of the riders were dark and Bilbo thought he could detect the colours of Thranduil's elves – shades of green, brown and grey._ _ _ _

In any case, Bilbo felt a glimmer of hope – the elves must have noticed the approaching wagon and had then decided to come to see what business was bringing a wagon from the dwarven camp towards their camp. The group was now riding towards Bilbo and Dain with such determination that the snow around the horses was whirling about like a cloud or an approaching avalanche. The sight made Bilbo's heart beat _fast_ with nervous excitement, while Dain's shoulders slumped and the dwarf began to curse in Khuzdul, quietly but with feeling, most likely overcome with humiliation for the likely possibility that elves would soon stand witness to the way a ”halfling” was holding him hostage by dagger point. 

____”Could you please drive faster,” Bilbo urged Dain._ _ _ _

____”We're going as fast as we can as it is,” Dain claimed, sounding quite sour. ”Durin's axe, this is humiliating...”_ _ _ _

____Though Bilbo couldn't yet make out the features of the riders, it didn't matter, not really – with new found energy, he realized that it wouldn't be long now till he was among elves, that he would soon be safe, and relief flooded into his heart, filling his soul._ _ _ _

____Just as Bilbo came to these conclusions, a distant voice could be heard coming from behind them._ _ _ _

____”Stop where you are!” a shout rang in the peaceful afternoon._ _ _ _

____The shout was so unexpected that Bilbo and Dain both gave a bit of a start._ _ _ _

”In the name of Thorin Oakenshield,” the same voice called again and Bilbo groaned out loud as he recognized the voice as Dwalin's, ”stop where you are, _now_!” 

____Foreboding, Bilbo realized that the dwarves were now truly after him and, worse than that, quickly _catching up with him_. It looked like the dwarves had ridden after him after all, following the tracks of the wagon, and since Dwalin's dwarves were most likely riding on ponies and didn't have to worry about the wheels getting stuck in snow, their pace was faster than Bilbo and Dain's had been._ _ _ _

Bilbo's heart fell to his stomach. Whatever relief he had felt upon noticing the elven riders escaped him, leaving behind only a strange, empty feeling, not unlike one he would have in a nightmare. The safety was _so close_ , surely the dwarves wouldn't reach him _now_ , not before he would be saved by the approaching elves? 

”Drive _faster_ ,” Bilbo told Dain, getting more frightened by the second. His muscles were tense, blood was rushing through him, his heart beat so fast it almost hurt. 

”We're going as fast as we can as it is,” Dain repeated his previous words. ”I would suggest that we should stop and listen to whatever it is that the younger son of Fundin wants to say, but you probably wouldn't take kindly to any of _my_ suggestions so I assume that I would be wasting my breath if I tried to convince you to stop.” 

____The dwarf was clenching his jaw as well as the reins, and his skin looked flushed as if he was extremely embarrassed – Bilbo could understand that it had to be pretty humiliating for the dwarven lord to be held by dagger point by an ill hobbit. Dain had probably been hoping that there wouldn't be witnesses to his ordeal, that Bilbo would let him go before anyone would witness the situation, but now there were witnesses approaching from the front and from behind alike. It looked like both Bilbo and Dain were in an uncomfortable situation, Bilbo because his life was in danger, Dain because he feared for his dignity._ _ _ _

____”Hobbits have no beards,” Bilbo began the first threat that came to his mind, becoming more desperate by the moment. ”Do you know why that is, Lord Dain?”_ _ _ _

____”Uh, no.”_ _ _ _

”It's because we hobbits _eat_ beards”, lied Bilbo, even though in all truthfulness, he had no idea why some beings grew hair on their chin while hobbits didn't, not that he had ever really given the matter much thought anyway. 

”You _eat beards_?” 

____Ridiculous as Bilbo's claim might have been, it made Dain gasp. The dwarf lord obviously knew very little of hobbits if he thought that any a hobbit would have willingly eaten one single hair._ _ _ _

”Indeed we do,” said Bilbo, while his pursuers were getting closer and closer, by the sounds of it – the dwarves were catching up with them _fast_. ”I ate my own beard as soon as I grew one, and if you don't get this wagon to move any faster, I'm _going to eat your beard_ too.” 

____The mere idea of biting into Dain's beard was making Bilbo nauseous, but that was the least of his worries, hunted by dwarves as he currently was. If he didn't reach the elves before the dwarves reached him, his life could well come to an untimely end in a matter of moments._ _ _ _

____Dain was shivering and not due to the cold._ _ _ _

____”You would eat my beard?”_ _ _ _

____”I would indeed,” Bilbo lied. ”Beards are- uh, delicious.”_ _ _ _

____”Beards should not be eaten,” said Dain hoarsely as if the mere thought was making him sick. ”Beards are- beards are to be grown and groomed. A beard is a dwarf's pride. I cannot believe hobbits could eat them.”_ _ _ _

”Nevertheless,” said Bilbo, ”we do, and I _will_ eat your 'dwarven pride' if you don't focus on driving – drive _faster_.” 

____And on driving faster Dain did focus._ _ _ _

____Unfortunately, only a moment later, there was a bit of a bump on the ground and the wagon came to such a sudden halt that Bilbo reeled forward and almost broke the skin on Dain's neck with the dagger by accident. As luck would have it, it now appeared that one of the wheels had gone stuck in a pothole in the ground, and even though the stubborn pony tried to pull the wagon free, they weren't moving anywhere. Cheering could be heard coming from behind them – the dwarves had noticed their sudden stop and were now expressing their triumph over it._ _ _ _

A sob escaped Bilbo then, so tired he was despite of his adrenaline rush: the dwarves had been his _friends_ , they had faced orcs, goblins and a _dratted dragon_ together, but now his former friends considered _him_ the enemy – it made Bilbo feel sick. 

____And then Bilbo really was sick. He managed to turn his head to the side just so before he threw up. He emptied what little he had in his stomach onto Dain's left sleeve, ruining the fine velvet, causing the dwarf to swear and wince in visible disgust. Dain tried to pull away, but Bilbo's fingers were still holding him in place, the dagger was still threatening his hair, and so Dain quickly changed his mind and settled for gagging and sitting still._ _ _ _

The sound of hooves of the dwarves' ponies was now so close that Bilbo knew that there was no escape for him. The dwarves _would_ catch up with him before he would meet the elves, there was no question about it anymore. Now it was only a question of whether or not the elves would still help him even if the dwarves would capture him, whether they would still come to his aid if he called for them. 

____Desperate, Bilbo peeked from between the flaps in the front and tried to locate the elven group. Try as he might, he could no longer see the elves, since there were snowdrifts between him and the riders, but he could already hear the sounds of hooves of their horses. He knew that the elves couldn't be too far away, either._ _ _ _

____Briefly, Bilbo considered leaving the wagon, breaking into a run, but he had to dismiss the idea – he wouldn't be able to run in the deep snow in his current condition, he was barely able to remain standing as it was. It turned out that it would have been too late for him to try and break into a run anyway, because just then the dwarves reached them. Dwarves quickly surrounded the wagon on their ponies and curses were thrown in Bilbo's way from all sides._ _ _ _

____”Coward!” Bilbo heard Gloin spitting._ _ _ _

” _Perunanenä_ ,” came Nori's voice, his tone was scornful and angry.

” _Ai durugnul,_ ” Bifur cried.

____Bilbo caught sight of Balin and Dwalin coming to a halt in front of the wagon, almost close enough for Bilbo to touch them. They were both sitting astride on their ponies, looking menacing and authoritative, but before either one managed to notice Bilbo, he quickly stooped down behind Dain's from, hiding from the view of his former friends. He never once released the hold he had on Dain's hair – perhaps, if it came down to it, the threat of one of their lords losing his hair would be enough to keep the dwarves at bay until the elves would reach them and Bilbo could ask for elven protection?_ _ _ _

”You _pathetic_ creature,” spoke Dwalin then and there was the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. ”You _coward_ can't face the consequences of your actions and so you choose to abduct someone under Thorin's protection. Did you really think that we would let you get away with this?” 

____Bilbo was breathing hard, too terrified to answer to Dwalin. His mind was numb and he didn't even question how Dwalin knew that he was there behind Dain – he could only focus on the fact that dwarves had already reached him while the elves were still somewhat further away, on the fact that Dwalin – whom Bilbo had considered a dear friend but a week before – was speaking of consequences and calling him a pathetic creature, a coward._ _ _ _

____Bilbo felt faint and nauseous. The world was spinning around him fast, his breathing was shallow. Now that the Doom was almost upon him, Bilbo found that he no longer had the strength to fight. He was unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but to wait for the dwarves to make their next move. He crouched there, holding the dagger to Dain's hair, all his limbs far too heavy for him to move them._ _ _ _

____He had never missed home as much._ _ _ _

____Dain cleared his throat._ _ _ _

____”Could you perhaps not point that thing at me, younger son of Fundin?”_ _ _ _

____”Where is Baggins, Ironfoot?” asked Dwalin and his voice was so cold, so unforgiving, that a sob escaped Bilbo's lips. Instinctively, he tightened his hand around Dain's hair, causing the dwarf to swallow hard._ _ _ _

”I, uh... I...” stuttered Dain. ”Well, the thing is that I- I don't- I assure you that _I_ have _not_ -” 

”Hand him over, you coward,” spoke Bofur for the first time, and hearing that even Bofur – _Bofur_ , the first dwarf that had declared himself Bilbo's friend – had come after him broke something in Bilbo. He could no longer hold his tears, and so, when a few tears ran down his cheeks, Bilbo didn't wipe them away – if the dwarves killed him, at least they would see that _his_ heart hadn't become as hard as stone in the recent days, perhaps his tears would even affect them, in some way. 

____”Let our friend go!” cried Gloin. ”You are not getting away with this.”_ _ _ _

” _Kûrdu-hûm_ ,” Bilbo heard Bifur muttering ominously. ” _Azad hu-gûrundûm_.” 

____Bifur's words caused Bilbo's former friends to cheer and several sentences were shouted in Khuzdul in a threatening manner. Dain was shivering in front of Bilbo and Bilbo could hear him letting out small noises, not unlike whimpers, but he was too afraid himself to wonder about that._ _ _ _

____Eventually Balin's sharp voice cut through all the shouts and yells. Balin said something in Khuzdul which silenced the other dwarves effectively._ _ _ _

____”Let us not come to any conclusions before we have all the facts,” he then continued, thankfully in Westron, making it possible for Bilbo to understand what was being said. ”There have been enough misunderstandings as it is.”_ _ _ _

____”We have no time for politics, brother,” muttered Dwalin, but his words were ignored by Balin who simply continued, apparently addressing Dain._ _ _ _

____”I ask you to excuse us for the crude insults that were just thrown at you, Dain Ironfoot,” Balin spoke. ”They were said thoughtlessly in a state of emotion. We merely want to ask you a few question on behalf of Thorin in his absence. For instance, why did you leave the camp? And what, may I ask, do you have in the wagon as your cargo?”_ _ _ _

”Or rather, _who_ ,” Bilbo heard Bofur muttering in a foreboding manner. 

____Dwalin apparently didn't have the patience to listen to Dain's answer – he seemed to have no patience for ”politics” in their current situation – for he gave the simple order,_ _ _ _

____”Cut the canvas off. Then we'll have the answers in front of our eyes.”_ _ _ _

____There was a sound of weapons being drawn, and before Bilbo had time to do anything but become ever more panicked, several sharp blades had been poked through the canvas that covered the wagon, and so the dwarves cut the canvas off the wagon. The canvas was quickly pulled away, off the wagon, and sooner than Bilbo would have thought possible, sunlight hit his face, his form, embracing both him and Dain and the dagger between them. Time seemed to slow down then as Bilbo saw the canvas fell in a heap onto the snow in slow motion. Then, suddenly, everything was back to normal speed and he was crouching there in the sunlight, visible to everyone, surrounded by hostile dwarves who were all armed and much, much bigger than him._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is dedicated to all those people who've let me know they've enjoyed reading it. :)


	15. Bilbo: Day Seven - The Pursuers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Don't antagonize the halfling,” ordered Dain immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must thank you all for your patience! It has taken me ages to update. I would have probably abandoned this fic a long time ago if it wasn't for all the lovely people giving me feedback. So even though I'm a terrible person and haven't even answered many of the comments, I want to let you know that every comment and kudos means much to me - they're great at motivating me. So to summarize, sorry and thank you. You're awesome.

_Day Seven_

Now Bilbo could actually see his pursuers. For the first time since the battle, he came face to face with the dwarves he had once – not so long ago – been allowed to call his friends, who had but days before been _proud_ to be his friends and of whom he still deeply cared, despite of everything.

Dwalin and Balin were there, as were Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Gloin and a warrior Bilbo only knew by name, Gidiur. Dwalin and Balin were both sitting on their ponies in front of the wagon. Dwalin was pointing his sword at Dain – the blade glimmered in the sunlight – but he was staring at Bilbo over Dain's shoulder and there was a look of pure astonishment on his face. Balin wasn't faring much better, his eyebrows had shot up to his hairline and he looked just as dumbfounded as his brother.

Looking around, Bilbo soon saw that all dwarves were gaping at him openly as if they were, for some reason, surprised to see him standing there, even though they _must_ have known that he was there on the wagon – that's why they had followed the wagon, wasn't it: to save Dain from him.

On Bilbo's left, Gloin was opening and closing his mouth slowly as if his mouth was trying to form words even though his brain hadn't yet quite caught up with his mouth. Next to Gloin, there was Bofur whose mouth was open as well, and his eyes were wide and filled with something that Bilbo could only describe as shock. On Bilbo's right, Bifur was looking at Bilbo, frowning, with his head slightly tilted as if it was difficult for him to process what he was seeing. Next to Bifur there were Nori – who was furrowing his brows in a curious manner – and the confused-looking male guard, Gidiur. Bofur, Gloin, Nori and Gidiur were holding the unsheathed daggers they had just used to cut the canvas off the wagon. Bofur was still holding one edge of the canvas in his hand, but the rest of the fair fabric lay there in a heap at the feet of his pony, crumpled and forgotten.

The sight of his former friends, now so hostile and hateful, was like a knife to Bilbo's very soul and thus he did nothing to stop tears from falling down his cheeks. He let himself cry, he allowed himself that – _he_ still had a heart and he was not ashamed to let it show. He was just one hobbit far away from home and he had endured more hardship in the last half a year than he had ever before in his life. All that hardship, all the pain, all the struggles had culminated in the battle, in the aftermath of the battle, _in this very moment_ and it was becoming all too much for him to handle.

If Bilbo hadn't been as scared and hurt as he was, he probably would have given more thought to the obvious surprise and shock on the dwarves' faces, but now Bilbo simply wondered, desperately, how far the elves were. It was as if the sound of the hooves of the horses had suddenly been silenced by magic itself, but Bilbo didn't dare to take his gaze off the dwarves to look around for the elves – he needed to stay sharp and focused now, or the dwarves could – _would_ – be upon him in a heartbeat. One mistake and he would lose his head.

Bilbo didn't want to lose his head.

Swallowing hard, Bilbo straightened his back and stood up from his crouching position. Several pairs of eyes followed the slow motion as if enchanted. With his heartbeat loud and clear in his ears, Bilbo tightened his hold on the dagger as well as on Dain's hair as if that could have kept him grounded, kept him safe. He felt dizzy and faint, and with foreboding certainty he knew that he wouldn't be able to remain standing for long. Now his only hope was with the elves, wherever they were.

”Durin's buttocks, Bilbo!” Gloin blurted out loud, still staring at Bilbo with wide eyes. ”Elven balls and hairless nostrils...”

While those were somewhat crude things for Gloin to say – he was usually quite careful to mind his language, especially so when in the presence of Fili, Kili, and Ori whom he considered impressionable due to their relatively young age – his words seemed to now shake the dwarves back to their senses, or at least several of them blinked.

”Uh,” Bofur cleared his throat, moving his face muscles curiously as if he couldn't quite decide whether to give Bilbo a hesitant grin or to give in and keep on gaping, ”er- um... Yes. Um, hello. Yes, _hello_ , Bilbo. Hello, my _favourite_ hobbit of all the hobbits that I have ever met.”

”Bofur,” Bilbo greeted the dwarf. His voice was hoarse with emotion and he coughed once to clear it.

”Fancy seeing you here,” said Bofur, still looking befuddled. ”How are you, my friend?”

” _Fine_ ,” snapped Bilbo, sniffling, though he immediately remembered his manners and added politely (but not entirely sincerely), ”thank you for asking.”

Rather poignantly, he didn't call Bofur his friend and Bofur's hesitant grin turned into a slow frown.

”Fine _my arse_ ,” muttered Dwalin who was looking Bilbo up and down, apparently assessing Bilbo's condition, much to Bilbo's displeasure – Bilbo couldn't afford for the dwarves to realize how bad his condition really was, if he wanted to survive this whole ordeal, and so he shifted on his feet uncomfortably, trying to glare at Dwalin through his tears (which, unsurprisingly, wasn't enough to scare Dwalin off).

Dwalin moved his gaze from Bilbo to the dagger Bilbo was holding in his hand. Finally the dwarf's gaze landed on Dain who, by now, was beat red.

Dain seemed to notice Dwalin's look, for his muscles tensed and he let out a strangled noise.

”Well, Dwalin?” Dain demanded even though his voice wavered and was far from steady. ”What are you waiting for sitting there like an elf? Now that you can see that I have done _nothing_ to Thorin's precious hobbit, do your duty as my kinsdwarf and _help me_. I understand that you are somewhat upset with me, but if you simply choose to watch on while he cuts my hair off – and perhaps even slits my throat – it is _you_ who will deserve to get your beard cut off. May Mahal curse you if you let the halfling harm me, _cousin_.”

”I haven't yet had a proper breakfast,” Dwalin said, irritation audible in his voice, ”I'm hungry, so you better believe that I am in no mood to deal with your shit right now, _cousin_. I'm growing tired of this 'misunderstanding' as some people keep calling all this crap you've gotten us into, and Baggins looks sick as if he were about to get married to an orc; he should be resting under Oin's care. So if ever has there been a moment when you should hold your tongue, Dain, that moment is now – for once in your lifetime, _keep your mouth shut_ and let Balin do the talking, if you can't find anything of worth to say. Or better yet, confess everything to Baggins and be done with it.”

”I already tried to explain it all to the halfling!” cried Dain, sounding all of a sudden a bit hysteric. ”I _tried to explain_ , Dwalin, but he _wouldn't listen_. He _abducted_ me from the camp while I was following Thorin's orders by taking firewood to the cooking areas, and he is _still_ threatening my hair with a blade – while none of you are doing anything to help me – and he said that he _ate his own beard_ and threatened to eat my beard too. He is no simpleton, Dwalin. Oh, Balin, the halfling is _no simpleton_ – he is a _barbarian_ and completely and utterly _mad_!”

”I beg your pardon!” cried Bilbo, highly offended, for he was a proper Baggins of Bag End and certainly not in the least bit _barbaric_.

”You don't need to beg for forgiveness, Bilbo,” Balin spoke, raising one of his hands in a conciliating gesture while holding the reins of his pony with the other. ”You have been pardoned by Thorin days ago. Thorin came back to himself – the sickness left him – the moment I told him of Fili and Kili's injuries, which were grave but are now healing well. Thorin has been regretful and feeling more than a little guilty for his deeds, for what he did to you. He blames you for nothing and wishes to make amends. He would still count you among his friends, if you would allow him to do so. He most certainly does _not_ wish to see any harm to come to you, laddie, we are not here to see you executed but to _help_ you. Please believe that.”

More than anything in that moment, Bilbo wished that he could have believed Balin. He would have given a lot – _so much_ – if Balin's words had been truthful, if Thorin had come back to his senses, if the dwarves would still want to consider Bilbo one of their friends. Balin did appear earnest, but it was Bilbo's life that was now on the line and he couldn't, simply _couldn't_ take the risk that Balin was lying to him.

Dwarrows could not be trusted – was that not something Thranduil had tried to tell him? If Balin wasn't speaking the truth, it would only take Bilbo one mistake – _one_ dratted mistake, one _slip_ – for the dwarves to overpower him and take him back to their camp for the execution. One mistake and Bilbo's fate would be sealed. It could well be that Balin was now simply trying to fool Bilbo into trusting the dwarves. Balin might have well been coaxing Bilbo into lowering his defences, into putting the dagger away so that the dwarves would be able to overpower him with no further damage done to Dain's hair.

Try as he might, Bilbo could see no deceit in Balin's eyes. If Balin was now lying to him, if Balin could look him in the eye and speak deceitful words of friendship without any visible signs of remorse... just the possibility of that was enough to clench Bilbo's heart in a painful manner. A small part of his mind insisted that he should listen to Balin's words and give the old dwarf the benefit of doubt – did Balin not deserve it after all they had been through together? – but under the current circumstances – with him being surrounded by the dwarves, with Dwalin pointing the sword in his direction, and with several of the dwarves still holding unsheathed daggers – Bilbo simply couldn't allow himself to be distracted. One mistake and his fate could be sealed.

”I'm no barbarian,” he said softly, drained, tightening his hold on the dagger. ”And I'm not mad either.”

Only just then did Bofur seem to note the tears that still kept on running down Bilbo's cheeks. The toy maker's face blanched.

”Oh, lad...” Bofur gasped, letting go off the edge of the canvas in his hand, reaching out towards Bilbo. He made a movement as if to get off his pony, as if to get closer to Bilbo by foot and Bilbo reacted instinctively, instantly.

”Stay where you are!” he cried, startled, and his shout was so sudden and unexpected that it gave the dwarves, too, a bit of a start and caused Bofur to freeze in place. ”Stay _back_ , or I _will_ cut Lord Dain's hair off!”

” _Don't antagonize the halfling_ ,” ordered Dain immediately. ”Can't you see that my hair is in danger? Take no chances with my hair.”

Slowly, with visible hesitation, Bofur eased himself back onto the saddle, while the other dwarves exchanged looks. Dwalin opened his mouth as if to say something, but then snapped it shut and settled for clenching his jaw.

Bilbo swallowed down yet another wave of nausea, feeling fainter by the moment. The smell of vomit was pungent, especially so as Dain's vomit-stained sleeve was right there under his nose.

”Well,” mused Nori who was regarding the dagger Bilbo was holding to Dain's neck, ”this certainly isn't the scene I was expecting to find, I give you that.”

”I'm not sorry to disappoint,” said Bilbo. He didn't know if his words made any sense, but he commended himself for having said _something_ , at least. His father might have been a Baggins, but his mother had been a Took and Tooks rarely lost their tongue.

Unlike Tooks, the dwarves now certainly looked lost for words, though Nori managed, ”Didn't say I was disappointed _per se_ , did I,” before falling silent. Yet again looks were exchanged between the dwarves and their mouths opened and closed as if they were desperate to say something but couldn't quite find the words.

With the dwarves seemingly otherwise occupied, Bilbo hastened to take a glance around to see how far the elves were. To his great disappointment he still couldn't see the elven riders anywhere, but the wagon had come to a halt in a small clearing, which was surrounded by high snowdrifts, so it was possible that the snowdrifts were simply blocking Bilbo's view of the riders. It was also possible that the snowdrifts were deadening the sounds of the horses' hooves like a velvet canvas would muffle the sound of domestic life on the wall of a smial, but Bilbo couldn't help but feel trepidation over the possibility that the elves had noticed the dwarves and had, for some reason, simply turned back to their camp and left Bilbo to his own devices.

Balin cleared his throat and Bilbo snapped his attention back to the dwarves. As soon as their eyes met, Balin gave Bilbo what was probably intended to be a kind smile even though the final outcome looked rather pinched.

”It is good to see that you are...” Balin seemed to struggle with finding a suitable word but settled eventually with, ” _relatively_ well, Bilbo. We feared that we might find you in a worse condition – and yes, I _am_ saying this as sincerely as is possible, for I mean every word: I assure you, laddie, that we are _not_ trying to get you executed, we pose you _no danger_. There was a misunderstanding between Thorin and Dain that has led us to this unpleasant situation – Dain misinterpreted Thorin's order to 'take care of you' – but I assure you that we mean you no harm. You are safe with us, I swear that on my beard.”

”I don't know if I believe you,” admitted Bilbo.

”Understandable,” said Balin, looking at the other dwarves. ”Perhaps we should demonstrate to Bilbo that we pose him no danger. Why don't you, Dwalin, sheath your sword? And the rest of you, put those daggers away already. Let us show to Bilbo that he is, indeed, among friends, that we mean him no harm.”

Bilbo saw Dwalin blink, and the dwarf looked down at the sword in his hand as if he had forgotten that he was still pointing the tip of it at Dain's chest. Grunting, Dwalin withdrew the weapon and did as his brother had suggested, as did Bofur, Gloin, Nori, and Gidiur. Soon there were no unsheathed blades anywhere but in Bilbo's hand.

”Baggins,” Dwalin said once his sword was sheathed, raising his hands to show that they were, indeed, empty. Bilbo really did not know what he should have made of this unexpected turn of events.

”Dwalin,” his voice betrayed all the wariness he was feeling.

In all truthfulness, Bilbo had expected the dwarves to attack him as soon as they saw him. Now their behaviour, their calm yet nervous manner bewildered him and the bewilderment increased his level of wariness, his fear.

Could it be that there was at least some truth in Balin's words? Or were the dwarves really just so reluctant to put Dain's hair into any further danger that they were now trying to coax Bilbo into lowering his defences, into releasing Dain so that they could then overpower Bilbo without the fear of Dain's hair getting harmed?

It was rather ridiculous how much dwarves seemed to care for one's hair, but Bilbo certainly wasn't complaining, if it was to keep him alive.

”Put the dagger down, Baggins.”

”I won't.”

”You won't be needing it.”

”I'll decide that for myself, Dwalin, thank you.”

”No need for gratitude,” the warrior spoke gruffly and lowered his hand to grasp the reins as his pony began to prance a bit.

”Just put the dagger down,” Dwalin added as soon as he had the pony under control once more. ”You won't be needing it.”

They were both silent for a moment, studying each other, while the other dwarves shifted on their saddles in a more or less uncomfortable, awkward manner. Against the back of his hand, Bilbo could feel Dain swallowing hard, but apart from that, the dwarf was as stiff and still as a plank. He seemed to be doing his best not to ”antagonize” Bilbo in any way. Instead of trying to be proactive, Dain was apparently waiting for the other dwarves to save him and his hair which wasn't senseless of him at all under the circumstances.

”You were on your way to the camp of elves, laddie, were you not,” said Balin unexpectedly.

Unexpected though the question might have been, the answer was so obvious that Bilbo only raised his chin in a mutinous manner, choosing to remain silent.

”Perhaps,” mused Balin, clearing his throat once again, ”perhaps we could all go to the elven camp together.”

Bilbo – and the dwarves – all looked at Balin with various degrees of surprise. They were all taken off guard by the suggestion, or so it seemed, at least.

”Have you lost yer mind, brother?” demanded Dwalin, sounding startled, repulsed, and worried for his brother's mental health, all at once.

Balin ignored Dwalin and the other grumbling dwarves in order to look Bilbo in the eye.

”You would feel safe amongst the elves, wouldn't you, laddie,” he said kindly. ”You would feel save, and we could send for Gandalf. You do not trust us to tell you the truth, but surely you would believe Gandalf's words, would you not?”

”Of course,” the words left Bilbo's lips without his even really needing to consider the matter.

”Indeed you do,” Balin nodded his head thoughtfully. ”While Thranduil's elves would look after you, Gandalf could go to our camp to talk with Thorin on your behalf. Upon his return, he could then tell you whether or not we are telling you the truth, Gandalf could clear this confusion for once and for all.”

”Have you gone mad, Balin?” demanded Dwalin again, with disbelief written all over his face, before Bilbo had a change to say anything. ”You would lead Baggins – in that condition – to the _greenlings_ and trust the wizard to solve the situation? Baggins is _under Thorin's protection_ , and I won't just sit idly by and let you take him to Thranduil. Have you forgotten what those elves did to us? Have you forgotten our stay in their dungeons?”

”I have not,” said Balin. ”How could I? It gives me no pleasure to suggest this, but what other options do we have?”

”We could just grasp Bilbo and take him to see Thorin,” suggested Nori. ”Bilbo wouldn't like it, but once he saw that we really mean him no harm, he and Thorin could talk things through and we could be done with this.”

”I won't let anyone _dwarfhandle_ Bilbo,” cried Bofur, slapping his knee to emphasize his words. ”No-one touches him! I don't want to get elves involved, but if Bilbo wants to come back to our camp, he will do so of his own free will, not because we made him do so. He's scared enough as it is.”

Bilbo was, indeed, more scared than he would have willingly admitted. His vision was swimming and he really, really, _really_ didn't know what he should have thought of Balin's suggestion and Bofur's words. Would the dwarves allow him to go to the camp of elves, to safety? Could it be true, after all, that Thorin had forgiven him, that Balin had been speaking the truth?

Could it be that he still did have friends among dwarves?

”I'm not putting Baggins' safety in any an elf's hands,” grumbled Dwalin.

Bifur, visibly just as unsettled by Balin's suggestion as Dwalin was, spoke in Khuzdul then, and soon all the dwarves were shouting at each other in their dwarven language, making wild hand gestures.

It would have been impossible to say how long that could have went on – perhaps the dwarves would have yelled at each other until Bilbo would have collapsed – hadn't a group of elven riders burst into the small clearing from behind the high snowdrifts just then. Their appearance was so sudden that even Bilbo gave a bit of a start even though new-found hope began to pour into his pores immediately at the mere sight of the elves. He was relieved to see that the elves hadn't went back to their camp, that the elves were _now there_ with him. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he would survive this ordeal after all regardless of whether Balin was speaking the truth, perhaps the elves would agree to help him, perhaps they would save him from dwarves.

The dwarves didn't seem pleased at all to suddenly find themselves in the presence of elves. Unlike Bilbo and Dain, the others hadn't apparently been aware of the approaching group of elves – which, now that Bilbo thought of it, was no wonder, really, as the snowdrifts had kept the elves well out of the dwarves' sight, just as they had kept them momentarily out of Bilbo's sight, and the snow had softened the sound of their horses' hooves just enough to make the sound undetectable – and thus the dwarves looked now more than a little taken aback.

Dwalin, clearly on guard, was muttering curses under his breath, while his gaze followed the movements of the elves in an intent, watchful manner. He was grasping the hilt of his sheathed sword, as were Nori, Bifur, and Gidiur, while Gloin held his axe with both of his hands and Bofur fingered the pommel of his dagger.

While the dwarves exchanged wary glances and signed to each other subtly in Iglishmek, the elves were quick to surround the wagon – or rather, the dwarves (who were surrounding the wagon). Their horses moved so fast that Bilbo couldn't count the elves until they all came to an eventual halt. When the elves finally brought their horses to a stop, it turned out that there were five elves, in total, each one of them fair, tall, lean and just as pleasant to look upon as all elves were.

The elves were all wearing Thranduil's colours, green and brown. The two males had situated themselves behind Dwalin and Balin and were thus closest to Bilbo and Dain. The slightly shorter one of the male elves had somewhat rounder features than elves usually did which made him look very young even though he must have been centuries older than Bilbo. The other male had high cheekbones and sharp features, and he, like the four other elves, was now regarding the dwarves with a blank expression on his face, even though the look in his green eyes was sharp.

On Bilbo's right, behind Nori, Bifur and Gidiur, there were two female elves who – judging from their similar ethereal appearances – had to be close relatives, possibly siblings or cousins. On Bilbo's left behind Gloin and Bofur, the oldest-looking elf, a female as well, had the kind of arching eyebrows that gave her a rather sharp-minded, intelligent look. Her hair was darker than the other elves' and she seemed to be the leader of the elven group, or at least her bearing was authoritative and commanded respect. Her blue eyes were quick to take in the beings in front of her and, for a moment, her gaze lingered on Bilbo, a flushed Dain, and the gleaming dagger between them. She raised one inquisitive eyebrow before focusing his gaze on Balin who she seemed to recognize, Bilbo could only assume that the two had met at some point during their long lives.

”Master Balin,” the elf said, tilting her head in greeting.

”Rambesiel,” answered Balin.

Now that the elves had come to a halt, the dwarves were glowering at them openly. Even though dwarves and elves had recently joined forces to fight a common enemy, it didn't look like the relations between the two races had become much warmer in the past few days. Bilbo, for one, had had more than enough of their mutual hostility, but there was little he could do about it, especially now when he had to focus on _surviving_ instead of mediating between dwarves and elves.

Dwalin had turned on his saddle to look up at the two elves that had come to a halt behind him and Balin. The elves were now looming over Dwalin and Balin on their horses which Dwalin didn't seem to like one bit, judging by his snarl.

”What is the meaning of this?” asked Balin of Rambesiel in a quite calm, diplomatic manner, even though Bilbo could detect a hint of annoyance and wariness in the dwarf's furrowed brow.

Rambesiel gave Balin a cool look and seemed to ignore the way Bofur placed himself between her and Bilbo – to keep her from coming to Bilbo's aid, or to protect Bilbo from any threat she might pose, that Bilbo couldn't tell.

”This wagon,” Rambesiel spoke, gesturing to the wagon in question, ”was detected by our guards and we were sent to investigate. Why were you approaching our camp?”

”It concerns you not,” said Dwalin as haughtily as Thorin might have done, never taking his eyes off the two elves behind him and Balin. Once again Thorin and Dwalin's familial resemblance was quite clear and the reminder of Thorin made Bilbo's heart ache.

”As my brother _meant_ to say, daughter of Rambes,” said Balin, ”there is nothing here to cause concern to elves. We were simply on our way to your camp because we wish to consult Gandalf the Grey on a personal matter. My sources tell me that he still remains with Thranduil.”

Bilbo sniffled and blinked tears from his eyes. He could tell that his condition was worsening by the moment. It already felt like a great effort to even remain standing, but he forced himself to stood tall – the presence of elves and the mention of Gandalf had given him hope as well as mental strength.

”Mithrandil has, indeed, been kind enough to offer us his aid upon our king's request,” said Rambesiel, looking from Balin to Bilbo. ”Might I inquire why you are threatening Lord Dain with a dagger, Master Halfling?”

”No, you might not,” snapped Dain before Bilbo could answer. ”It doesn't concern you.”

”But I am required to give a report of this encounter,” insisted Rambesiel. ”To give a thorough report, I must have answers to certain questions, such as why this wagon was approaching our camp and why Master Halfling is threatening his lordship with a blade.”

”None of your business, elf,” said Dwalin, echoing Dain's words, ”so why don't you leave us be and ride your bony little arses back to that flower ring you call your 'camp'.”

” _Vâi-êtkaa,_ ” Balin said to Dwalin and Dain in a sharp tone of voice. Dwalin and Dain grumbled something in Khuzdul and then fell silent, at least for the time being.

Offering the elven leader an apologetic smile as if he regretting causing her some inconvenience, Balin spoke, ”I apologize for those rude words. As for the matter with Master Baggins and Lord Dain, there has been a bit of a misunderstanding between my kin – that is why we are in need of Gandalf's consultation, truth to be told.”

Bilbo could no longer see clearly, the world around him was blurry, the dwarves and the elves and the animals they rode were nothing but colourful shapes against white background. He felt like he was floating and he was so, so cold, _freezing_ , even though he was sweating and his clothes felt sweltering. Soon his survival would be out of his own hands and then it would only be a question of whether the dwarves or the elves would reach him first, whether the elves would try to help him, or whether they would leave him in the dwarves' mercy.

It was time for Bilbo to find his voice, now that he still got it.

”Good day!” he greeted the elves as politely as he was able to, managing to draw the attention of both the dwarves and the elves to him at once. He could tell that he was slurring his words and could only imagine what he looked like to the elves: with his face smeared with tears, sweat, snot, and vomit while he swayed on his feet and held a dagger to a dwarven lord's hair.

”Afternoon greetings to you too, Master Halfling.”

Rambesiel tilting her head was the last thing Bilbo saw before colour and shape quickly faded away, and Bilbo knew then that he was about to collapse. He withdrew the dagger from Dain's hair, as he didn't want to accidentally cut the dwarf with it when he would unavoidably collapse. The weapon slipped out of his grasp as if on its own accord and hit the planks of the wagon with a rapping sound that echoed in Bilbo's feverish mind.

”Please help me, my lady,” Bilbo said, or at least tried to say, just as a sensation of falling hit him. The next rapping sound he heard was caused by his own body hitting the floor of the wagon. He laid there, shivering but too exhausted to move as a cacophony of startled voices suddenly filled the air all around him.

”Bilbo! Bilbo!” was the last thing he heard before unconsciousness claimed him and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter will be up shortly - I'll give you two chapters today.


	16. Thorin: Day Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should have awakened me! How can you even say that this isn't urgent!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NB: I'VE UPDATED TWO CHAPTERS TODAY - I suggest that you read the fifteenth chapter before this one.**

_Day Seven_

Oin's potions made Thorin fall asleep soon after Dwalin had left the tent, and he slept peacefully well into evening without dreaming – without hearing the echoes of his nephews' pained screams in his nightmares – which meant that he was able to actually rest. Even though neither Bilbo nor Thorin were aware of this, Thorin's fever broked down around the same time as Bilbo collapsed in the wagon, and Oin hummed, satisfied, as he noticed Thorin's improved condition, although Thorin, of course, didn't know that either, sleeping as he was.

When Thorin came to, hours later, darkness had fallen, and someone had been by to take Dwalin's mattress away. Bombur and Dori were in the tent with him, sitting by his bedside, talking quietly together. As soon as they noticed that he had awakened, Bombur gave him water and Dori began to fuss as was so characteristic of him, arranging and re-arranging the blankets around Thorin's legs until Thorin – dizzy from all Dori's movements – asked him to stop.

”How do you feel?” asked Dori, still eyeing Thorin's blankets critically, after Thorin had satisfied his thirst and both Bombur and Dori had reclaimed their seats.

”Fine,” he said curtly, even though that wasn't quite true. The looks Dori and Bombur gave him told clearly that neither one believed his word, and Thorin decided to change the subject before any further inquiries could be made.

Thorin wanted to ask after Bilbo, as well as his nephews, but at the same time he couldn't find the courage to voice the questions – what if the answers wouldn't be to his liking, what if Bilbo or one of his boys' condition had worsened?

What if one of them had succumbed to their wounds?

”Give me a report,” Thorin thus said, hoping to get answers without having to directly ask for them.

Bombur exchanged a bemused glance with Dori.

”Um, on what, exactly, my lord?” wondered Dori, needlessly formal as ever.

”Do you expect me to write reports on your behalf?” said Thorin gruffly. ”Give me a report on anything worth reporting; tell me if anything worth reporting happened while I was asleep.”

”Oh, well,” said Bombur slowly, furrowing his brow as if in thought. ”Something worth reporting did, indeed, happen.”

”And that is something we _shouldn't be talking about_ ,” cut in Dori, giving Bombur a warning look. ”We shouldn't excite him, Bombur – he needs to rest. You shouldn't have even mentioned... the news, Oin told us not to.”

Bombur looked from Thorin to Dori.

”Don't you think he has the right to know?”

”It's for his own good, Bombur. Oin specifically told us not to tell him.”

”Tell me what, exactly?” demanded Thorin. ”What has happened? Are-” _my sister-sons all right_ ”-elves causing us trouble?”

”Not more than usually, as far as I know,” said Bombur, rubbing his neck awkwardly. ”Perhaps... Perhaps Dori is right, perhaps I shouldn't have said anything – if we told you the... news, Thorin, you would want to leave your bed, and you do need your rest so perhaps you should just forget that I said anything.”

”Perhaps I could, in theory,” agreed Thorin, ”but first you need to tell me what it is that you would expect me to forget. ”

Dori pursed his lips, while Bombur let out a resigned sigh.

”If we tell you,” he said, ”do you promise to stay in bed and not try to get up?”

”If the matter isn't urgent,” said Thorin slowly, ”and doesn't require my immediate attention, yes. Otherwise, no.”

Dori and Bombur looked at each other. Judging from their displeased expressions, neither one was satisfied with the answer, although they both must have known it was all Thorin would give them. With yet another resigned sigh, Bombur turned to look at Thorin and said,

”Very well then. I'll tell you, but you _must_ consider the matter carefully before you even try to leave the bed. This may sound urgent to you, but I assure you that it isn't as everything is under control. You _need_ your rest, Thorin, and we are only concerned for your health when we ask you to look after yourself.”

”Yes, yes,” said Thorin in his impatient manner. ”Now, tell me the news if you will. Is my kingdom under threat? Or has something happened to-” he swallowed hard and forced himself to finish the question, ”or has something happened to Bilbo – his condition is still improving, isn't it?”

Dori and Bombur exchanged a glance. Dori's eye began to twitch.

”Well,” said Bombur, clearing his throat. ”This is actually about your nephews, this time. You see, Fili has regained consciousness.”

”He woke up two hours ago,” Dori hastened to add. ”And this is definitely all that we should be reporting to you, Your Highness. Nothing else worth reporting has happened, nothing at all, nothing, not a single thing.”

Fili regaining his consciousness was the greatest news Thorin could have gotten, under the circumstances, and he had thrown covers off him – while Dori continued his blabbering – before he even realized he was doing so, and attempted to get up before neither Dori nor Bombur came to their senses and began to protest.

”Why wasn't I informed the minute it happened?” demanded Thorin, hastening to put his boots on, cutting Dori's blabbering off. ”How is Fili? Is someone with him and Kili now? Have they been asking for me? You should have awakened me! How can you even say that this isn't urgent! What if it was one of your children, Bombur? Or one of your brothers, Dori?”

They were standing now, the three of them. Dori tried to guide Thorin back to bed, insistently, but Thorin shrugged his hands off him even more insistently, ignoring the pain in his torso and the dizziness he felt.

”I should have been there the moment Fili woke up,” Thorin chided himself, reaching for his shirt. ”My boys needed me.”

”And you needed your rest, Thorin,” tried Bombur, ”and you still do. Fili is as fine as can be expected, and while he did ask for you, he understood just as well that you shouldn't have been awakened.”

”Besides,” said Dori, ”Oin is with them, they're under good care.”

It was clear to them all that nothing either Bombur or Dori could say would manage to keep Thorin from going to see his nephews, and so, after a while, Bombur and Dori abandoned their useless task of trying to keep Thorin confined to bed. Instead, they came to a conclusion that it would be more constructive of them to aid Thorin rather than have him strain himself when trying to do all on his own, and so they assisted him in getting dressed, and used a wheelchair to push him out of the tent and into Fili and Kili's tent.

Unsurprisingly, Oin wasn't glad at all to see Thorin out of bed, but he wasn't as much of a fool that he would have tried to step in between him and his nephews now that Thorin was in the said nephews' tent.

Disappointingly, Fili was asleep again, but Kili was awake with a book in his lap, propped up against the bed post with the help of several pillows. (If Thorin hadn't been as focused on his nephews as he was, he might have noticed the few words Oin exchanged subtly with Bombur and Dori in Iglishmek, _”This should keep him distracted until Balin and Dwalin come back with Bilbo.”_ )

When Oin guided Thorin to sit into the chair between Fili and Kili's beds and made him comfortable in his nest of pillows and blankets, Kili and Thorin offered each other a nod in greeting. As soon as Oin had led Dori and Bombur away in order to give the Durins some privacy, Kili gave his uncle a bright grin, closing his book.

”Fili ate porridge,” he said with such pride that one might have thought that Fili had found a stone comparable – in beauty as well as worth – to Arkenstone itself (the thought of Arkenstone made Thorin wince internally, but now was not the time to dwell on guilt and so he did his best to push such feelings away).

Thorin studied his older nephew, taking in the slight pallor of his skin, his calm features, the fact that someone had recently washed and braided his fair hair. Fili's breathing was steady, his chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of one that was sleeping. Thorin couldn't resist putting a gentle hand on Fili's chest on top of the blanket to feel the movement himself, to feel for himself that _Fili was breathing_ in all actuality.

When he finally found his voice again, it was hoarse with emotion.

”Did he?”

”Almost the whole bowl full,” confirmed Kili, happily. ”Nothing wrong with his appetite, my brother's stomach still has no bottom – some things don't change, it seems.”

The news delighted and relieved Thorin more than a news of any a found precious stone ever could, of that he was certain, and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Fili's ear like he had sometimes done when the lad had still been a dwarfling.

”That's good,” he said quietly, perhaps more to himself than to Kili. ”If only I had been here to see it.”

Thorin allowed his fingers to linger on Fili's soft hair. Usually he wasn't one for such displays of affection, but now the act didn't feel awkward at all – he found it quite soothing to pet Fili's hair and so he kept doing it.

”He asked after you, too,” Kili told him, ”wished you were here, but Oin told us that you needed your rest.”

”To Mordor with my rest,” grumbled Thorin. ”I should have been here with you and your brother. Did Fili say anything else when he was awake? Did he know where he was? Was he in pain?”

”Oin gave him something for the pain, and he was coherent, after a bit of initial confusion. He asked what I had been up to while he had been occupied with resting, and I told him that mostly I'd just waited for him to wake up. He gave a chuckle at that, Thorin, _an actual chuckle_.”

Kili drew breath and then he began to blabber in that quick manner he got whenever he was particularly excited, ”Then I told him how Ori went against Lord Dain, but Fili almost didn't believe it – not that I can fault him for that, because _I_ hardly believe it even though I was there – well, _here_ , technically, in this very tent – to witness it all. Ori didn't like it when Fili didn't believe it and so he left the tent in one of his 'silent huffs' and he hasn't been back since. I think he's still mad at us, and I'm sorry about that, of course, as was Fili, and that's why we tried to-”

” _Dain_ ,” Thorin interrupted Kili, giving his nephew such a severe look that Kili's eyes widened and his mouth snapped closed.

Kili must have sensed the way his uncle's mood had suddenly darkened – at the mention of Dain – for he stayed silent the entire time it took for Thorin to gather his thoughts.

”After all Balin and I have taught you, Kili,” Thorin finally spoke, still petting Fili's hair, ”you still would have signed a contract without reading it, just because Dain promised you practise fields.”

The admonishment – and the audible disappointment in Thorin's voice – made Kili wince.

”I-” he said, ”I would have read it before even considering signing it. I... would have.”

Grunting, unimpressed, Thorin withdrew his hand from Fili's hair and fished the unsigned contract out of his pocket, unfolding it – the parchment was a reminder of how close he had come to losing Kili for the second time in a matter of days, and he wasn't yet ready to let it go, he kept it with him on his person. Now he put the contract in front of Kili and pointed a finger at the line on the bottom of the contract – or rather, he pointed at the spot of ink there was on the line at the bottom of the contract.

”If you weren't planning on signing this,” said Thorin, giving the contract a tap with his finger, ”then why does it look like someone snatched it from you at the last moment, just as you had begun to write your name on it? Why is there a spot of ink here, I wonder? How did that come to be?”

Kili shifted, visibly uncomfortable.

”It dropped there by accident,” he insisted quietly, apparently unable to meet his uncle's searching gaze. ”I... I _would have_ read the contract before signing it.”

Thorin pulled the contract away and folded it again, putting it back to his pocket. He resumed stroking Fili's hair before he spoke again, doing his best to keep his voice low for his sleeping nephew's sake.

”Had Ori not prevented you from signing it,” he said, giving Kili a stern look, ”you would now be a member of Dain's household. I would no longer get to call you my heir, for you _wouldn't be my heir_ – you would be _Dain's_.”

Kili swallowed hard and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Thorin wasn't yet done.

”Did you ever pause to think what you were doing, boy? Did you _think_ at all? _Are_ you thinking now? Is there ever anything in your mind but pretty lasses, merrymaking, and food?”

Of course there was more to Kili's thoughts than that, and Thorin would have been the first to declare so had someone spoke to or of Kili like Thorin himself was now doing. It was fear – _I almost lost you._ – that was making Thorin's words harsher than necessary, unfair, even cruel. He blamed himself for not protecting his sister's sons better – he blamed himself for having failed them – and, as sometimes happened when Thorin got upset, he now said all the wrong things, putting blame where it shouldn't have been placed, and showed too little of his true feelings. He berated Kili, calling him a foolish boy, ignoring all the little words Kili tried to put in to defend himself.

By the time Thorin was finished, Kili was clenching his fists and hanging his head in shame. Upon noticing what he had done – upon realizing how much he had upset Kili – Thorin's first instinct was to apologize, but – he reluctantly reminded himself – he had been right to reprimand the lad, harsh though he had been when doing it: Kili should have known better, Kili shouldn't have let Dain manipulate him like he had, and this needed to be a reminder for him, too, this needed to be a lesson.

Thorin sighed. He wished that Bilbo had been there in Fili and Kili's tent with him – Bilbo would have known how to fix this, he would have given Thorin wise advice and offered them all words of comfort.

Little did Thorin know that Bilbo was no longer resting under Oin's care in his own tent, nor did he ever once suspect that Bilbo wasn't even in the camp of dwarves anymore.

Since Bilbo wasn't there with him, Thorin was now left to his own devices.

”None of that now,” he said to Kili, not unkindly, when Kili's lower lip gave a bit of a tremble. ”What is done, is done. We will learn from this and, the next time, we shall thus be wiser.”

Kili bit his trembling lip and gave a terse nod.

”I'm sorry,” he said in a hoarse voice. ”For disappointing you, as well as for not thinking my actions through. You have taught me better, Uncle. I shouldn't have forgotten my lessons as I momentarily did. I won't disappoint you thusly again.”

”I know you will try your very hardest not to,” offered Thorin because Kili – a warrior of age though he now was – was still immature and reckless in many ways, and Thorin didn't think it unlikely that Kili would, one day, do something foolish and rash again – Thorin could only hope that Kili's foolishness would then have no lasting, irreversible effects.

No more words could be exchanged between the uncle and the nephew, for just then – just as suddenly as unexpectedly – the tent flaps were swiped aside in a rather aggressive manner and a breath of cold evening air was let in. With the honed reflexes of an experienced warrior, Thorin was up on his feet and standing – weaponless, slightly dizzy, and shivering after having abandoned his nest of blankets – in a protective stance between his nephews and the tent's entrance before he had even seen who it was that had forced their way into Fili and Kili's tent uninvited.

It was but moments later that he had to crane his neck to meet the gaze of Gandalf the Grey who towered over his shorter form but an inch from him, for it had, indeed, been Gandalf who had entered the tent in such a forceful manner, Balin, Gloin, and Bofur hot on his heels. Oin, Dori, and Bombur who had been conversing quietly in the back of the tent had fallen silent when Gandalf had entered the tent and they now stepped closer, eyeing Gandalf and the three dwarves questioningly, while Gandalf stared down at Thorin.

”Gandalf!” Kili greeted the wizard, sounding delighted. ”So nice to see you. Where have you been?”

Gandalf offered Kili a look much kinder than he had ever given Thorin – Gandalf was quite fond of Fili and Kili, that was one thing Thorin did like about him – before focusing his attention on Thorin again without answering Kili's inquiry.

”Is the madness so deeply ingrained in you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he spoke, ”that you would see a friend beheaded for something he did to save you and your kin?”

Thorin winced as guilt flooded his mind in merciless waves. It wasn't difficult to see why Gandalf was there: someone must have told him that Dain had almost beheaded Bilbo ”on the order of Thorin”, and Gandalf was now here to let Thorin know what he thought of the matter.

The thought of Bilbo's execution had made Thorin sick and he still shivered when thinking of what almost had happened – how Bilbo had almost been beheaded by _his order_ – but Thorin hadn't thought before what Gandalf might have done had Bilbo actually been beheaded by the dwarves, accidentally or not. Now, though, he could clearly see that it would have been nothing pleasant: The wizard's eyes were blazing, his usually calm features were twisted in anger. His attention was focused fully on Thorin, or so it appeared, and he glowered at Thorin in such a manner that Thorin had to use all his willpower to be able to meet the gaze.

”I give you my word that I want no harm to come to Bilbo Baggins,” swore Thorin. ”All that happened after the battle was a misunderstanding of the worst kind, and it is my intention to beg for Bilbo's forgiveness for it once he is well enough to grant me his audience. I swear to you that the madness has left me, my mind is clear of golden fog once more.”

”Indeed?” Gandalf didn't sound convinced, but his gaze turned unreadable and he studied Thorin as if searching for something.

It was Kili that spoke next.

”' _Well enough_ to grant an audience' – no-one told me that Bilbo had been injured,” he said, sounding upset. ”And what does Thorin mean, 'all that happened after the battle'? What have you not told me?”

”Everything shall be explained to you later, Kili,” promised Balin, ”but now is not the time for that. Thorin, we must speak with you at once.”

” _No,_ ” cut in Oin. ”If your matter isn't urgent, you can bother Thorin and his boys later. My patients _need their rest_.”

Giving Gandalf, Bofur, Balin, and Gloin each a poignant look, Oin grasped Thorin by the arm and began to lead him back to the chair.

”Our matter is urgent indeed,” said Bofur apologetically. ”We do need to talk with Thorin sooner rather than later.”

”But you heard Oin, Bofur,” Kili put in. ”Uncle needs his rest, and I'm sure Fili would want him to be here when he wakes up. Mister Balin, can't you and Mister Dwalin deal with this 'urgent matter' on your own?”

”I'm afraid not, Kili, as Dwalin can't currently do much,” said Balin and there was something so off about Balin's voice that Thorin was instantly concerned. He halted on his tracks and turned slowly to look at Balin. Something tightened in Balin's features at this and Balin cleared his throat, evading Thorin's gaze, looking suddenly quite uncomfortable. Trepidation came over Thorin – surely nothing had happened to Dwalin, to his dearest friend, his firmest support column?

”Where is Dwalin, Balin?” he asked warily, glancing at Gloin and Bofur as if assessing whether one of them could give him the answers to his questions. ”And why do you say he can't 'currently do much'?”

Balin never got the chance to answer, for it was Gloin who then cried out, ”Because Thranduil is holding Dwalin hostage!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Thanks again for your support!


	17. Thorin: Day Seven - The Truth in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin sighed, knowing well what needed to be done.

_Day Seven_

Thorin took Gloin's words as well as could be expected: not well at all. Shrugging Oin's hands off him, he rounded on Gloin, stalking towards the dwarf like a beast on a prowl.

”Say that again,” he demanded, his voice was barely more than a growl. ”Tell me again what that traitorous king of elflings has done to Dwalin.”

Gloin opened his mouth to speak, but before he managed to utter a word, Gandalf spoke.

”Thranduil has done nothing to Dwalin,” the wizard claimed, sounding exasperated. ”Master Gloin should have chosen his words with more care. Thranduil is _not holding Dwalin hostage_ , Thorin, Dwalin is merely staying in Thranduil's camp for the time being as Thranduil's _guest_.”

Thorin ignored the wizard – it didn't surprise him in the least that Gandalf would choose to be on the elves' side – and turned his gaze in all of its intensity on Balin. Balin was furrowing his brow and stroking his long white beard as he sometimes did when he was feeling anxious. Thorin would have offered his friend some sympathy, but he believed that Balin would appreciate efficient actions – getting his brother back from the elves – rather than any words of comfort Thorin would awkwardly say to him and so Thorin focused on the former rather than the latter.

”Has Thranduil made any demands yet?” he asked Balin.

”No, _he has not_ ,” said Gandalf, ”for Thranduil is _not holding Dwalin hostage_.”

”Gandalf is speaking the truth, laddie,” said Balin, looking quite uncomfortable. ”Dwalin isn't being held hostage by elves or anyone else. He's quite all right... apart from being in a camp full of elves, of course.”

”In a camp full of elves,” repeated Thorin. ”That doesn't sound 'all right' to me at all. Is Dwalin held hostage there or not?”

”No, laddie, he isn't,” Balin cleared his throat. ”Dwalin is in the camp of elves, but at least he isn't being held there against his will.”

”Not against his will,” repeated Thorin, looking from Gandalf to Balin, Bofur, and Gloin incredulously – the idea that Dwalin was in Thranduil's camp, all on his own... Thorin could barely stand the idea, and it was hard for him to digest the fact that Dwalin would have stayed there of his own choosing. ” _Not against his will._ ”

”Thranduil might as well have taken Dwalin hostage,” insisted Gloin. ”He told the rest of us to leave the camp. He wouldn't let us stay there with Dwalin but sent us away.”

”Thranduil _allowed_ one of you to stay,” corrected Gandalf, a note of reproach in his voice. ”He was trying to keep the situation as controllable as possible which it might not have been had more than one dwarf stayed in his camp. Thranduil is clearly trying to create a more constructive political situation between your peoples, the fact that he allowed Dwalin, at least, to stay speaks clearly of that. He could have sent you all away, it was quite lenient of him to allow Dwalin to stay.”

” _Not against his will_ – _allowed_ Dwalin to stay,” repeated Thorin, growing more bewildered, disturbed, and exasperated by the minute. ”Why would Dwalin want to _stay_ in _Thranduil's_ camp of his own free will? And why did he go to the elves in the first place? What reason did he have?”

”I suggested it,” admitted Balin, once again evading Thorin's gaze, and if Thorin had been in disbelief before, now he could do little else but gape at his oldest friend, lost for words.

”What?” Kili managed on Thorin's behalf. ”Why would you get an idea to send Mister Dwalin to the camp of elves?”

”Because Balin wanted to take Bilbo there,” explained Bofur. ”Bilbo needed medical attention, you see, and so we took him to the elves. Dwalin stayed there with Bilbo, but Thranduil sent the rest of us away, even though I demanded to be let to stay, too. Apparently Thranduil didn't care to play host to a simple toy maker like me and preferred to let 'the nobility stay' if one of us had to.”

”The elves wanted to separate Dwalin from his kin, most likely, to make him vulnerable...” grumbled Gloin, shaking his fist. ”We will have to pay a ransom to get him back, mark my words.”

”Thranduil,” spoke Gandalf, ”is _not holding Dwalin – nor Bilbo – hostage_. He _allowed_ the both of them to stay. He is doing you all a kindness, you stubborn dwarf!”

”Mark my words,” Gloin said again, folding his arms across his chest, and Gandalf harrumphed.

Even though it did look like – much to Thorin's relief – like Gloin had been exaggerating when he had said that Dwalin had been taken hostage by Thranduil, there were still many things that bothered Thorin about the situation.

”You took Bilbo to the elves,” he said as soon as he found his voice again. ” _You took Bilbo to the elves._ Of all the things you could have done, Balin, you took Bilbo to the elves, placed him and Dwalin in Thranduil's mercy! I have never known _you_ of all people to do something this thoughtless, something this- _this foolish_.”

Thorin felt like he was dreaming and the dream was not good at all. Surely it couldn't be that Balin – _Balin_ – had removed Bilbo from his tent, surely it couldn't be that Balin had taken Bilbo away from the safety of their camp after all the trouble the dwarves had been through to get him back in the first place. Surely it couldn't be that Balin had removed Bilbo from Oin's care in order to trust him to elves' care. Balin had more sense than that.

And yet, there Balin stood, looking determined if also anxious and apologetic, claiming that it had been his idea to send Dwalin – and Bilbo in the addition – to Thranduil's camp.

”Did you know about this?” Thorin demanded of Oin, gesturing towards Balin as he turned to face the healer. ”Did you know that Balin was going to take Bilbo to the elves? Surely you wouldn't have agreed with it – you would have been more than capable of looking after Bilbo without any _elvish help_.”

”Of course I would have been,” agreed Oin matter-of-factly, ”but... circumstances change.”

”You shouldn't have even removed Bilbo from his tent,” Thorin said to Balin, ”let alone to- _to take him to elves_. Oin would have looked after Bilbo, you didn't need to consult elves on his behalf, and if you did, you could have invited them to our camp instead of taking Bilbo to them!”

”I didn't 'remove Bilbo from his tent', laddie,” sighed Balin, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. ”He left it on his own. He woke up while Oin was tending to you. Bilbo was by himself for only a few short moments, but during that time he managed to cut the back of his tent open and leave through that hole. No-one had had the chance to explain the... misunderstanding to him and so he still believed that we wanted to harm him – he apparently thought it best to escape, and escape he did. We didn't tell you because you would have gone after him which, considering your condition at the time, might have well been fatal to you.”

It took several long moments of explaining before Balin – with the more or less helpful aid of Gloin and Bofur – managed to explain to Thorin – and a carefully listening Kili – how Oin had noticed that Bilbo had escaped from his tent, how the dwarves had begun to look for him, how they had realized that Dain's disappearance must have had something to do with Bilbo's escape, how they had caught up with Dain's wagon and found out that _Bilbo_ had taken _Dain_ hostage, not the other way around, how Bilbo had then collapsed, how the elves had agreed to let the dwarves take Bilbo to the camp of elves at Balin's request. Balin then proceeded to describe how Gandalf had happened to come by and how he had immediately began to heal Bilbo.

”Bilbo's condition was critical,” said Balin. ”Had Gandalf not been there, I could well be here with even graver news.”

The implications of that were clear

_Bilbo might have died._

and Thorin felt himself blanch. He staggered backwards, groping his way to the vacant chair between his nephews' beds and dropped into it as all strength left his legs. Oin hurried to arrange the pillows and blankets around him with Dori's aid, while Thorin covered his face with a hand, trying not to think how close to death Bilbo had once again been because Thorin hadn't made sure that Dain would understand him clearly enough.

When it came down to it, Thorin thought, it was all his fault, as were so many other things. Yes, Dain should have asked to have the order in writing, but Thorin shouldn't have left any room for misunderstandings in the first place.

”Will Bilbo survive?” he forced himself to ask and the resulting silence felt to him like hours.

Eventually Gandalf answered, ”I believe so,” and something painful unclenched in Thorin's heart upon hearing those three words.

It turned out that Thranduil had given Bilbo a tent of his own and had allowed Gandalf to accompany Bilbo there. The dwarves had been left standing outside in the cold for hours while Gandalf and Thranduil had done what they could for Bilbo. By the time they were finished, Bilbo's fever had come down and he was sleeping peacefully.

And that had been when Gandalf had begun to demand answers of the dwarves.

”We told him everything,” Balin continued. ”We began by telling him how Dain had taken your words as an order to execute Bilbo and how-”

” _Execute Bilbo_ ,” Kili cut in in a sharp voice. ”Did I hear that right, Mister Balin? Did you just say that Dain tried to 'execute Bilbo'? By order of _Thorin's_?”

”Yes, that's what he said,” said Bombur, apparently thinking he was being helpful, and Kili gave Thorin a look so wary that Thorin could feel his heart breaking from the impact of it.

”Kili-” Thorin began, but Kili was already trying to get up from the bed. His attempts were in vain since both Bombur and Dori pushed him insistently back down, and soon Kili gave up on trying to leave bed in order to look at Thorin.

”Have you relapsed?” demanded Kili, perhaps more desperately than he had meant to. ”Has the madness taken a hold of you again, Uncle? Is that why you ordered Bilbo's execution?”

”I have _not_ relapsed,” Thorin did his best to assure Kili, meeting the gaze of the brown eyes as steadily as he was able to in his current condition. ”I give you my word, Kili, the madness has left me.”

”Then why did you order Bilbo to get executed?”

”He didn't, lad,” Balin hurried to say. ”It was a misunderstanding. Thorin asked Dain to 'take care of Bilbo', and Dain intepretted Thorin's words in a different way than Thorin had meant them.”

There seemed to be some kind of an internal turmoil going on in Kili's mind as he studied his uncle cautiously, in a searching manner. Thorin sat still, never looking away, and slowly, gradually, Kili's wary expression cleared and he gave Thorin a nod.

”I believe you,” he said to Thorin's great relief. ”I believe you're you again and that it was all a misunderstanding.”

”I'm glad to hear that,” admitted Thorin.

Kili's eyes were then so full of trust, love, and silent admiration that Thorin had to turn his face away, for he had never felt he deserved such things from his nephews who should have had so much more in their life than an uncle as difficult and poor – in more ways than one – as him.

(Though now he did have gold, more than he would ever need.)

”But this misunderstanding,” Kili continued, turning his gaze on Balin, ”I wonder if it is the same misunderstanding that Ori mentioned earlier.”

”Whether it was or not,” sighed Thorin, rubbing his face wearily, ”you can find that out later, Kili. Now our focus should be on Dwalin and Bilbo's immediate return. The sooner we can get them back here where we can protect them, the better. Balin, your decision was an uncharacteristically foolish one. You shouldn't have taken anyone to the camp of elves, especially not Bilbo in his grave condition. Instead, you should have brought Bilbo here to Oin's care and send someone to fetch Gandalf. You know that elves can't be trusted.”

”And you know me, Thorin,” said Balin, ”and you know that I _can_ be trusted. For over a century we have called each other friends. I wouldn't have taken Bilbo to the camp of elves if I didn't deem it the best possible choise under the circumstances. I _did_ think it the best option, under the circumstances: Bilbo was in need of medical help and I thought that we could ask Gandalf to clear this whole matter up since he's impartial and since Bilbo trusts him, probably more so than he currently trusts us. Do trust my judgement now, laddie, as you have done in the past.”

They gazed each other in the eye for long moments, until Thorin sighed and looked away.

”How was Dwalin when you left him?”

Three different voices answered his question at once.

”As fine as can be expected,” said Balin just as Bofur muttered, ”Grumpy,” and Gloin said, ”Hungry – he hadn't even eaten a proper breakfast yet!”

”Well,” Thorin grunted, ”he better be fine – and unharmed – when he gets back here.”

”I'm sure he will be, Thorin,” said Gandalf in his slightly gravelly voice. Then he turned to Balin, ”Your decision was a wise one, Master Balin, in particular under the circumstances. It is thanks to you that Bilbo is now recovering, as is the fact that I am now here on his behalf to find out the truth. Once I have my answers, I shall go to him and tell him whether or not you dwarrows pose a danger to him, whether or not he has reason to feel threatened by you.”

”Good,” said Bofur emphatically. ”I want my friend back, and even more than that, I want my friend to know that I still am his friend, that I never wished him harm in the first place.”

”I'm sure we all want Bilbo to know that we still count him among our friends,” agreed Bombur.

”Wait,” said Kili, startled. ”Does Bilbo think that _I'm_ not his friend anymore? Does he think that Fili's not his friend either? Surely not? Does he think that we were involved in this whole misunderstanding in some way?”

”Who knows, laddie,” said Balin, ”but now is not the time for dilemmas like that. We have more urgent things to deal with: now we must convince Gandalf for the fact that Thorin doesn't wish to see Bilbo executed.”

With that, all the pairs of eyes turned to stare at Thorin, and Thorin straightened his back despite of the pain the movement caused in his shoulder.

”In the presence of these witnesses,” he spoke, meeting Gandalf's gaze, ”I swear to you on my life, Gandalf the Grey, that it is not my intention to have Bilbo Baggins to come to harm. I never gave the order to have him executed, all that happened after the battle was a misunderstanding of the worst kind. Bilbo shouldn't have experienced the things he did – I should have made sure that my kin understood my order clearly when I asked them to look after Bilbo, I shouldn't have left any room for misunderstandings.”

”Indeed you shouldn't have,” agreed Gandalf. ”Your order – an intentional one or not – almost caused the death of one innocent being. Although you appear sincere when you claim that you don't wish to harm Bilbo, I am still not convinced enough of your honesty that I would tell Bilbo that you are speaking the truth.”

”In that case,” said Thorin, tilting his head slightly, ”how can I convince you that I speak the truth?”

Gandalf fell silent with a deep frown forming on his forehead as if he was considering the matter carefully. Eventually he gave a barely detectable nod to himself and focused his attention back to Thorin.

”Allow me to see the truth for myself,” he suggested. ”Allow me to see your memories through your eyes.”

That was one suggestion Thorin hadn't been expecting, but he didn't let the surprise of the unexpected suggestion show on his face.

”And how would that be done?”

”I would touch your mind, Thorin, briefly,” explained Gandalf. ”I would visit the chamber of your memories and see for myself how the events unfolded, how they happened from your point of view. Only if I do this, can I find the truth out for certain.”

The dwarves around them murmured with discontent. It was obvious that they didn't like the idea of someone visiting their king's ”chamber of memories”, although none of them knew for certain what that was, exactly.

Balin noted with healthy amount of suspicion, ”I wasn't aware that you can read minds, Gandalf.”

”There are many things you aren't aware of, son of Fundin, wise though you are.”

”Have you been reading our minds when we've been asleep, Gandalf?” demanded Gloin.

”I can only visit the chamber of memories of those who allow me in,” Gandalf assured the dwarves. ”And one has to be awake to allow it. I cannot – and wouldn't – touch an unwilling mind.”

”And how would you even do that, to touch someone's mind?” asked Bofur. ”Would you shrink yourself until you could climb into one of Thorin's nostrils, or how else would you gain access to his mind and to this 'chamber of memories'?”

”Don't be stupid, brother,” said Bombur to Bofur, giving him a bit of a nudge. ”Gandalf would have to enter through Thorin's _ear_ – everyone knows that the ears are the way to one's mind, not the nostrils.”

”I thought it was the nostrils for sure.”

”No, it's the _ears_ , brother, I'm sure.”

”Those are both such fascinating theories,” said Gandalf, ”but the process wouldn't be quite so physical that I would need to try and 'shrink myself', although some physical contact would, indeed, be needed in order for me to enter Thorin's chamber of memories. I would simply touch Thorin's forehead with my fingers and allow the energy of my mind to briefly touch the energy of his mind – this would give me all the answers I would require.”

Before anyone had the chance to say anything, Kili spoke.

”No,” he said, firmly, vehemently, reaching out to grasp Thorin by the bicep as if believing that the physical contact would be enough to prevent his uncle from giving Gandalf his consent. ”Thorin's mind has been 'touched' enough as it is. You stay out of his head, Gandalf, and keep your 'mind energy' away from him as well.”

”Bilbo Baggins' future depends on what I find out from your uncle, young Kili,” said Gandalf gravely. ”I cannot go back to Bilbo with answers I'm not completely certain are truthful. If you want me to believe that Thorin doesn't want Bilbo executed – and if you want me to tell Bilbo such a thing as the truth – Thorin will have to allow me to see the truth in his mind.”

” _No_ ,” said Kili again and his grip on Thorin's arm tightened. ”Thorin's mind needs time to _heal_ – he's only been back to himself for a few days, and you could cause him to... to relapse, even! I've only just gotten my uncle back and now you might as well be suggesting taking him from me and my brother again. Twice the dragon sickness shall not have my uncle in its grasp, once was more than enough. Our word must be enough for you, Gandalf, like for everyone else, and you can tell Bilbo what we tell you – let us trust him to make his mind up of that – but you cannot touch Thorin's mind. I will not allow it. If you try to touch him, you will have to fight me. I _will_ protect him, even from you, Gandalf.”

Kili spoke with passion of youth and familial love, and although his loyalty was touching – and made Thorin even more determined to not fail his nephews again

_They deserve better._

– Thorin couldn't help but sigh to himself at the foolishness of his kin: It hadn't been but moments since Kili had apologized to Thorin for not using his better judgement when dealing with Dain and his contracts and now he was already announcing that he would _fight one of the Maiar_ if he deemed it necessary. If Gandalf decided to enter Thorin's mind without consent, there would be nothing any of them could do – Kili wouldn't be much of an opponent to a powerful wizard like Gandalf, a competent warrior nearing his prime though he may have otherwise been. 

Thorin ran a hand through his hair. The passion of youth – what else was it but rash, foolish actions that could easily get one killed or wounded? Kili was so full of youthful passion that it seemed to cloud all his judgement, all his reasonability on occasion. Thank Mahal of the level-headed Fili who could balance out his brother, Thorin thought, giving his sleeping nephew a fond look.

Thorin considered his options. There was truth in Kili's words: If he were to allow Gandalf to touch his mind, there was a real possibility that his mind wouldn't be strong enough to take the impact, that the dragon sickness could find a way to take a hold of his mind again. On the other hand, if he didn't let Gandalf have the answers in a way the wizard deemed necessary, Bilbo might never believe the dwarves, he might continue living in fear of dwarves and Thorin.

Did he not owe Bilbo his life, Thorin reminded himself, did he not owe Bilbo the lives of his nephews, his kin, and his friends? Did his people not owe Bilbo a debt higher than Thorin's mind would ever be worth and was it not Thorin's duty as their king to pay that dept on their behalf?

Thorin sighed, knowing well what needed to be done.

”I acknowledge what my people and I have done and caused to Bilbo,” he said and became immediately the centre of attention. ”If by clearing this matter up I can repay even some of what we – _I_ – have done to Bilbo, I shall do all I can to do so. Do to me what you must, Tharkûn. Touch my mind and search this chamber of memories you speak of. Find the answers you need, but I ask that you will tell Bilbo the truth once you are done.”

”That I can promise you,” Gandalf's voice was low and – Thorin noted on some level – fitted thus the anxious atmosphere of the tent quite well.

”There is,” continued Thorin, swallowing hard, ”there is one other thing I would request of you before you touch my mind, Gandalf. A personal favour, if you like.”

Gandalf gave him an inscrutable look.

”And what might that be?”

”If it were to happen,” said Thorin, ”that you touching my mind would result in dragon sickness taking a hold of me again, I would request that you would take it upon yourself to end my life, one way or another.”

Complete silence resulted in the tent from these words. Kili's grasp on Thorin's arm was now painfully hard, but Thorin still continued,

”It is not an easy thing to ask, Gandalf, nor would it be a pleasant thing for you to do, but that is what I request since I cannot take the risk that I would bring doom over my people again, over my recently reclaimed kingdom; I would rather die than become mad again. If you wish to touch my mind, you have to first promise me to kill me if I become mad due to your touch.”

”It would be unlikely that I would cause such harm to you, Thorin,” said Gandalf gently. ”I can promise you that I would be as careful as is possible.”

”I would rather die than become mad again,” Thorin repeated. ”If you wish to touch my mind, you have to give me your word that you would kill me if golden fog filled my mind again due to your touch.”

Gandalf bowed his head. Suddenly he looked to Thorin even older than usually, like he now felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

”Thorin Oakenshield,” said Gandalf gravely, ”I promise to you that I would personally make sure that you would cause harm to neither your people nor your kingdom if you were to fall victim to dragon sickness due to my touch.”

”That is good enough of an answer to me,” sighed Thorin, even though Gandalf hadn't promised to kill him – if it became necessary – per se.

”Perhaps we could talk about this later,” suggested Oin who was holding his ear trumpet in a white-knuckled grip. ”Perhaps... perhaps when Thorin has had more time to heal, when his _mind_ has had more time to heal.”

”No,” said Thorin. ”We must do this now. I'm not letting Dwalin and Bilbo spend a moment longer among elves than is absolutely necessary.”

”I must agree that we should hurry the proceedings,” said Balin with audible reluctance. ”The elves were already preparing to take down their camp and the majority of them – including the young prince – had already been sent back to Mirkwood on the order of Thranduil by the time we left their camp. While Thranduil was kind enough to allow my brother and Bilbo to remain in one of his tents, I don't think he would have his warriors linger in such an open area for Dwalin and Bilbo for any longer than was necessary for the wounded elves' sake – that is why I considered this matter so urgent: if we don't act now, Thranduil will either take Bilbo and Dwalin with him to Mirkwood, leave them in the snow, or have some of his warriors bring them here which might cause further trauma to Bilbo, mentally even more so than physically.”

Thorin liked none of the options.

”Do to me what you must, Tharkûn,” he said with determination. ”Touch my mind and search my chamber of memories. Find the answers you need and then hurry to Bilbo and let him know that I want him no harm.”

”No, Thorin,” Kili said, the desperation in his voice audible. When Thorin turned to look, he met the gaze of two pleading eyes that were filled with trepidation and fear and worry and so, so many other feelings that Thorin wondered how he ever could have been as unfair as to ask Kili if there was nothing else in his mind but ”pretty lasses, merrymaking, and food”.

Thorin wanted to say something encouraging, then, but as tended to happen when he needed his words the most, he couldn't now come up with anything to say.

”Let go off my arm, Kili,” he eventually settled with. ”You probably shouldn't be in contact with me when Gandalf touches my mind.”

”Please, don't do this, Uncle,” whispered Kili and that was almost enough for Thorin to change his mind just for his sister-son's sake.

”Let go off my arm, Kili,” he nevertheless repeated. His voice came out softer than he had intended. ”If your uncle's request isn't enough, must your king order you?”

Reluctantly, Kili released him and withdrew his hand.

Thorin offered Kili a bit of a smile and looked then at Gandalf.

”I am ready.”

”Very well then.”

Gandalf stepped closer, right in front of Thorin, raised his left hand and touched Thorin's forehead, the spot between his eyes.

”Try not to think of anything,” Gandalf advised. ”If you must think of something, think of doors and opening them; think of opening a door for me.”

”Very well,” said Thorin. ”I'll think of doors, and you'll remember the promise you gave me.”

”If this will be the doom of my uncle,” Thorin heard Kili saying, ”I will blame you for it, Gandalf.”

”If you must,” sighed Gandalf, and then he didn't say anything for a while.

It was difficult for Thorin not to think of something – the more he tried, the more he thought – and so he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on doors. He would have thought of the door of Bilbo's smial – that would have suited the situation – but he could scarcely remember it, so little mind he had paid to the architecture of hobbit smials when visiting one. Thus, instead, he now thought of all the doors he had ever made himself and he imagined opening them to Gandalf.

Gandalf's fingers felt cool against Thorin's forehead, but gradually they became warmer, all the more warmer, until they felt almost hot against Thorin's skin.

After a while, Thorin felt as if some kind of internal wind was forcing its way into his mind, rummaging around his thoughts. It hurt, but he didn't move away, enduring the pain rather than preventing Gandalf from searching his chamber of memories. After only a few moments, Gandalf withdrew his hand and the wind instantly disappeared from Thorin's mind. Thorin slumped instantly forward in his chair, letting out an involuntary gasp of pain. He held his suddenly aching head with both of his hands, while Oin's familiar hands appeared on him, prodding and offering comfort. Gloin and Bofur were swearing somewhere in the background, Bombur and Dori's murmurs were worried. 

”You didn't say it would hurt him so!” Kili's accusing voice felt piercing in Thorin's ear and he hushed his sister-son in Iglishmek.

”I assure you that no lasting damage was done to your uncle, young Kili,” Gandalf said quietly, probably keeping his voice down for Thorin's sake. ”The effects will soon wear off. If I could have been given the answers without causing Thorin some pain, I would have done so.”

”You could have just _asked_ him whatever it was that you wanted to know,” Kili argued, though he now kept his voice down as well. ”You know, with _words_ like everyone else does instead of your fancy magic. Like I suggested! Why do you and Thorin always have to be so _frustratingly histrionic_!”

Oin's hands disappeared then, but Thorin kept his head in his hands, eyes firmly closed against the pain, and so he couldn't tell where the healer had gone off to. Everyone had fallen silent, but Thorin could hear rustling sounds of moving clothes and thus he knew that the people around him were discussing something in Iglishmek – and apparently quite furiously. He could only assume that Kili was letting Gandalf have a piece of his mind, while the other dwarves – and the wizard – were chiming in on the conversation.

Eventually Oin came back – judging from the strengthened scent of potions – and a cool, mint-scented towel was placed onto Thorin's neck. The coolness of the fabric soothed the pain in Thorin's head and he let out a sigh of relief.

Once he was able to raise his head again, he met Gandalf's gaze. The wizard look

_sad, sympathetic, regretful, apologetic_

much kinder than before, and Thorin took this to mean that Gandalf was now certain that Thorin didn't wish to get Bilbo executed.

”Did you get your answers?” he nevertheless asked in an unexpectedly raspy voice. ”Do you now know that we have been speaking the truth?”

”Yes, I do, Thorin Oakenshield,” murmured Gandalf. ”Yes, I now know that you have been speaking the truth. I am sorry I caused you pain when getting this information.”

”No need for apologies,” grumbled Thorin, rubbing his temples. ”It will be a great relief to me when you tell Bilbo the truth and we can finally have this matter cleared.”

”Indeed,” said Gandalf softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't quite satisfied with this chapter, but since I promised you a chapter for today, here it is nevertheless. The next chapter you'll get next week - that's a promise. You'd have it earlier but I need to take my laptop to be repaired so I can't write for a few days.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments&kudos! They still mean a lot to me.


	18. Bilbo: Day Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's nostrils flared.

_Day Eight_

He was warm and lying on something soft and comfortable. A faint scent of moss and herbs reached his nostrils and he inhaled deep, feeling content. The scent reminded him of his youth, of the long, peaceful days he had spent wandering around the flourishing forests of the Shire, and he smiled, embracing the happy memories.

Bilbo might have fallen back to sleep, then, to dream of those carefree days of his youth, hadn't he suddenly felt a presence near him and hadn't a voice spoken from above him.

”So you awake, Master Baggins,” someone noted in a dry tone of voice. ”Do feel inclined to open your eyes at some point in the near future. Sooner rather than later, if you please.”

Frowning, Bilbo opened his eyes, blinking, prompted by the voice – only to see Thranduil's face, which was about two inches from his own. With a startled squawk, he made a reflexive swipe with his hands and slapped the elven king in the cheek. The slapping sound was loud in Bilbo's ears, but Thranduil gave no reaction to being hit, his face remained blank, his expression impassive. He seemed so unfazed by Bilbo's reaction that one might have assumed that he was used to getting slapped by startled hobbits.

With grace only elves seemed to possess, Thranduil straightened himself from the crouching position he had been in by Bilbo's right side.

”I- I-” Bilbo stuttered, mortified by what he had just done. ”I- I _sincerely apologize_ for hitting you, Your Highness. I didn't mean to slap you, it was purely instinctive.”

”I have faced foes fiercer and far more dangerous than you, little one,” stated Thranduil, not unkindly. ”You insult me if you believe that your flailing limbs could be anything more to me but a slight inconvenience.”

”Of- of course,” Bilbo swallowed hard. ”Yes, well. I'm- I'm very sorry, nevertheless. I shouldn't have- I... sorry.”

From Bilbo's left side, there came a snort, and a hint of annoyance appeared in Thranduil's otherwise impassive expression. Upon turning to look, Bilbo saw Dwalin who was standing by his left side, opposite to Thranduil, with his muscular arms folded across his chest in his characteristic, imposing manner. Dwalin was smirking up at Thranduil with almost a triumphant look upon his face, and Bilbo felt his heart rise to his throat at the sight.

It all came back to Bilbo in a rush: the execution order – he was to be beheaded by Thorin's order – the black execution axe, avoiding getting executed _just so_ , running for his life, getting caught in Lake-town, waking up in the camp of dwarves, running for his life again, kidnapping Dain, getting caught again, collapsing in the wagon... Bilbo remembered with vivid clarity why he had been desperate to get to the camp of elves, he remembered his own desperate attempts to escape from his former friends. He recalled how the dwarves had been after him, and how they had caught up with him and Dain shortly before he had collapsed due to his feverish state. He also remembered the way Balin had tried to convince him that Dain had mistaken Thorin's words for an execution order, that it had all been a misunderstanding – Balin had said that Thorin didn't want him dead, that the dwarves still wished for Bilbo's friendship, if he was willing to give it to them, and Bilbo remembered his own confusion at hearing Balin's words.

If all that hadn't been confusing enough, Bilbo was now in a tent with Thranduil _and_ Dwalin who were both standing by his bed, while Bilbo had no idea how he had gotten onto the said bed, or even in the said tent.

”I've seen Baggins face goblins,” Dwalin was saying to Thranduil, ”and wargs, and trolls, and even _a dragon_ , but this is the first time he has ever cried out when coming face to face with an unpleasant creature – can't blame him though: who would want to wake up to your elvish features? Must have been a shock.”

Thranduil's nostrils flared.

”After spending months in the sole presence of dwarves,” the elf king said with audible disdain, ”the halfling's eyesight must have become accustomed to certain level of crudeness. What you just witnessed, Master Dwarf, was a reaction of pure _awe_ – Master Baggins must have felt nearly blinded when he came unexpectedly face to face with the graceful features of my family line.”

Dwalin gave yet another snort, finally looking down at Bilbo. The look in his eyes seemed to soften when he met Bilbo's gaze, and for a moment, Dwalin studied him closely, as if he was searching for some kind of an answer to an unvoiced question. The dwarf's was voice uncharacteristically gentle when he eventually spoke,

”How are you feeling, Baggins?”

”I- I'm-” Bilbo stuttered with his heart in his throat, feeling slightly hysterical and more than a little bewildered. ”I'm... a bit thirsty?”

As soon as Bilbo had managed to utter the words from all his bewilderment and fear, Thranduil put one of his large hands behind Bilbo's head and helped him to lift his head. A tankard of clear water was pressed onto his dry lips, and Bilbo took a sip after sip, only just realizing how thirsty he was, while Thranduil held him steady, all the while.

Once Bilbo had satisfied his thirst, Thranduil allowed him to lean back onto the pillows.

”Thank you, my lord,” Bilbo said softly, taking his surroundings in for the first time.

They were in a relatively large tent that was illuminated with candles and wooden lanterns. The sun had apparently already set, for it seemed to be dark outside, but a cozy fire was crackling in a portable fireplace near his cot. He was lying on a soft mattress, covered with a warm blanket and various herbal compresses that caused the air around him to have a lovely fresh scent. His wounds had been dressed and he had been given a bath, Bilbo noted, much to his mortification – someone had seen him in a state of undress! – but at least he felt much better than he had in days. He wasn't in any pain.

”Where am I?”

”You are among my people,” answered Thranduil, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head as if he couldn't quite decide whether Bilbo was being obtuse on purpose. ”In the camp of my warriors. Is that not obvious?”

Yes, it certainly was quite obvious. If the presence of Thranduil himself wasn't enough of an indication of their whereabouts, then the fact that there were shades of green and brown everywhere, and that most structures were wooden – unlike in the camp of dwarves where most structures had been made from one metal or another – certainly should have been.

”How did I get here?”

”We brought you here,” Dwalin told him. ”You were in need of immediate medical attention, and as the camp of elves was closer than our own, Balin came to the decision that we should bring you here.”

Swallowing hard, Bilbo turned his head away from Thranduil in order to look up at Dwalin, meeting the dwarf's gaze warily from his horizontal position. Some of his wariness must have been visible in his expression, for Dwalin let his arms to fall to his sides as if he was doing his best to look less imposing – not that it did anything to ease Bilbo's tension.

”Relax, Baggins,” grumbled Dwalin. ”I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to let elves hurt you either – I'm here _to protect you_ – so there's no need for you to look like someone is about to shave your hair off. You have nothing to fear; yer under dwarven protection.”

Bilbo could do little else but stare. His mind was in turmoil, his thoughts troubled, his feelings a mix of fear, bewilderment – and _hope_. Hope that Dwalin was speaking the truth, hope that Balin had spoken the truth when he had said that Thorin had come back to his senses, that Thorin did not wish to harm Bilbo, that the execution attempt had been caused by a misunderstanding between Thorin and Dain.

It might have been a foolish thing to allow oneself to feel hope, for it could well be that it would be for nothing in the end, but on the other hand, Bilbo was now lying comfortably on a bed in the camp of elves, which in his current situation felt like a safe haven to him. It could well be, Bilbo thought, that Dwalin was being sincere, that he was being truthful and honest. But – _but_ – it could also be that Rambesiel and her elves had for some reason forced the dwarves to bring Bilbo here – it was possible that she hadn't given them another choice – and that Dwalin was now pretending to care for him to fool Thranduil into releasing him into the dwarves' care.

Thranduil gave a snort – or what constituted as a snort when coming from him – and spoke,

” _'Dwarven protection'_ , indeed. Well have dwarves looked after and 'protected' Master Baggins! If the kind of 'dwarven protection' I have so far witnessed in Master Baggins' case is of any indication, dwarven protection is anything but effective. Do you dwarves not feed the one's under your 'protection'? Do you at least _try_ to see to their wounds, or do you simply just allow the wounds to fester?”

Bilbo saw Dwalin clenching his fists.

”You have no idea of what you're talking about,” the dwarf said through gritted teeth, ”so you better mind your own business, king of greenlings.”

”And you better mind your tongue, _dwarf_ ,” said Thranduil with a sniff, wrinkling up his nose. ”You may be well loved by _your_ king and kin, but I will not listen to disrespect in the camp of _my_ warriors. Consider yourself thus warned, son of Fundin.”

”You need not worry about the dwarf, Master Halfling,” Thranduil then continued, looking down at Bilbo. ”You will be well looked after here, for it gives me great pleasure to prove that my people can do what dwarves failed to do.”

It turned out – much to Bilbo's bewilderment – that the dwarves had, indeed, ended up bringing him to the camp of elves after he had collapsed, some twenty hours earlier. Thranduil had only allowed one dwarf to remain to accompany Bilbo, for he had wanted to keep the situation ”as controllable as possible”, and so it had been decided that Dwalin would stay with Bilbo while the other dwarves would return to their own camp.

As he told Bilbo of this, Thranduil put quite a lot of emphasis on the fact that he had been ”willing to offer Bilbo his aid,” and even though it was only implied – once or twice or fifteen times – Bilbo understood that Thranduil was doing this to demonstrate that ” _he_ , unlike Thorin, could look after injured hobbits without causing them further harm”. While the feud between the two kings was quite sad, Bilbo didn't actually mind that someone – he, that was – could benefit of it for once. The important thing was that Thranduil was helping him, that Thranduil _would_ agree to protect him from the dwarves if necessarily, if only to spite Thorin and to cause inconvenience to dwarves.

”And then there is always the fact,” said Thranduil, sounding quite pleased with himself, ”that Mithrandil himself asked _me_ , as a personal favour to him, to look after you while he went to the camp of dwarves to speak with Thorin Oakenshield to find out whether or not it is true that dwarves are after your head.”

It took a moment for Thranduil's words to sink in, but when they did, Bilbo inhaled sharply.

”Gandalf?” he gasped. ” _Gandalf_ was here?”

”Yes, he was,” grunted Dwalin, folding his arms across his chest. ”That's another one of the reasons why Balin wanted to bring you here, of all places. Balin knew the wizard was here and wanted to get him involved, you see. He said that you would believe Gandalf's word over ours and that Gandalf would be the only person who would be able to solve this situation. I assure you, Baggins, that I didn't want to bring you here in the mercy of elves, and it wasn't a decision made easily, but I do trust my brother and his judgement, and if he says that this is the best solution, then it probably is.”

”Where is Gandalf now?” asked Bilbo eagerly. ”Can I talk to him?”

”Later, undoubtedly,” said Thranduil, ”but not at the moment, no. As was explained, he went to the camp of dwarves to question Thorin Oakenshield, to find out whether or not the future king of dwarves wishes you harm. He will likely come back once it stops snowing, if all goes well, and then he shall tell us the truth of the matter.”

The fact that _Gandalf_ was aware of the situation and was actively doing something to solve it felt like someone had taken a heavy load off Bilbo's shoulders. Suddenly it was easier for Bilbo to breathe, his immediate future no longer seemed quite so bleak: If no-one else, then surely at least _Gandalf_ would protect him. Gandalf was his friend, Gandalf would help him, Gandalf would guide him to safety, of that Bilbo was certain.

And who knew, Bilbo thought, perhaps Gandalf would find out that the execution order had, indeed, been a misunderstanding. Perhaps Gandalf would come back with news almost too good to be believed. This chance – small as it felt – was enough to make Bilbo almost giddy with hope.

Nevertheless, Bilbo needed to be prepared for the other alternative as well. He needed to have a plan ready in case Gandalf came back and told him that Balin had been lying, that Thorin _did_ wish to have Bilbo's head separated from his body. Bilbo _needed to prepared_ in case he had to continue his escape.

(How deep could the wrath of dwarves run? How far would they keep on chasing him? To the edge of Mirkwood? To the Misty Mountains? To Rivendell?

To Hobbiton?)

With this in mind, Bilbo bit his lip and met Thranduil's gaze.

”What if-” he began, swallowing hard, ”what if Th-" _orin_ , "the dwarves _do_ want me beheaded?”

”We do _not_ ,” Dwalin put in quickly.

”But what if Th- they _do_?” repeated Bilbo stubbornly, keeping his gaze on Thranduil. ”Will you protect me then, my lord? Will I be safe among your people? Would you grant me refuge?”

It was quite forward of him to ask such things, but now was not the time to be coy. Now was the time to form alliances and take action.

Thranduil didn't seem to mind his forwardness since he merely raised an eyebrow.

”I must consider the future of my people, Master Baggins,” the king mused, inspecting his fingernails, ”and as it looks like a considerably powerful dwarven kingdom shall be rebuilt near my own kingdom, I would prefer our relations with that kingdom to be as peaceful as possible despite of my personal feelings towards certain dwarven royalty. If dwarves would, indeed, see you executed and if they requested your extradition – as they haven't yet done – I would need to extradite you to them, considering the rather delicate political situation we find ourselves in. I wouldn't harbor someone dwarves consider a traitor, it would be... politically ill-advised.”

The words were harsh in their honesty and directness. The weight of them hit Bilbo like a physical blow, and the relief he had felt upon hearing of Gandalf was now dimmed by the possibility that Thranduil would agree to extradite him if the dwarves were to request it. If Gandalf was to come back with bad news – and if Thorin requested such a thing – Thranduil _would_ agree to extradite Bilbo to dwarves, even though he had also agreed – for now – to look after Bilbo as a favour to Gandalf.

Could – would – Gandalf protect him from _both_ dwarves _and_ elves? Bilbo wasn't sure and the possibility that he _wouldn't_ terrified him.

Thranduil was giving him a look that was probably meant to be apologetic but came closer to ”mildly inconvenienced” if anything.

”I do hope, Master Baggins,” Thranduil said once he hold Bilbo's attention once more, ”that you wouldn't take the extradition personally, of course, for it wouldn't be anything personal. I must admit that I, for one, find you and your antics curious and rather fascinating – in less than forty hours, you have kidnapped dwarven nobility in desperation, slapped elven royalty in awe, and had Mithrandil to do your bidding while unconscious. I am quite entertained by these unexpected turns of events. It would be a pity if the dwarves wished to see you beheaded. I want you to know that it wouldn't be a pleasure to extradite you, for I don't-”

”A _pleasure_ ,” Dwalin hissed, cutting Thranduil's words off. ”A _pleasure!_ If my people were actually trying to harm Baggins, you would hand him over to us, just like that, and that would be the end of him. The thought of that – it's- it's- _it's unacceptable_! Did you not just _promise_ to look after him – would you take your word back?”

”I will look after Master Baggins for as long as it is convenient to me and my people,” said Thranduil, looking at Dwalin down his nose. ”If you had an ounce of the political understanding your brother is in possession of, son of Fundin, you would now choose your words carefully, or remain silent altogether. In any case, you should be content to know that I am willing to encourage cooperation between our peoples, that I wouldn't harbor enemies of your cousin's in my halls – nor in my tents.”

”Content?” Dwalin seethed, banging his fist against Bilbo's bedside table, causing Bilbo to give a start and cover his mouth with a hand. ” _Content?_ How could I possibly be content when I'm hungry and when it looks like I'm the only person in this entire camp that actually cares about Baggins? His fate is in your hands and you would sacrifice him for political gain – have you no honour at all?”

Bilbo blinked and studied the dwarf more closely. Dwalin's eyes were wide and filled with emotions Bilbo couldn't quite read. Still, it looked to him like Dwalin was upset in earnest, it looked like the thought of Bilbo's execution was making Dwalin so anxious that he would lose his composure in Thranduil's presence. Surely, Bilbo thought, surely if Dwalin wanted him beheaded, he would have been delighted to hear that Thranduil would agree to extradite Bilbo to dwarves upon request. Surely Dwalin wouldn't have become upset at the idea, surely Dwalin would have no reason to keep on pretending to care for Bilbo if he knew that Thranduil wouldn't oppose to extraditing Bilbo to dwarves for the execution.

The more Bilbo thought about it, the more it began to look like to him that Balin had been speaking the truth, after all, when he had told Bilbo that the dwarves wished him no harm.

Bilbo felt almost shy the next time he caught Dwalin's eye, but then his own eyes began to feel heavy and he had to close them. He fell asleep to Dwalin and Thranduil's argument like it was a lullaby, an aggressive lullaby, maybe, but a lullaby nevertheless.

The next time he woke up, Gandalf was sitting on a chair by his bedside, smoking a pipe with a faraway look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments&kudos! :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”My dear Bilbo. It warms my heart to see you awake.”

_Day Nine_

_Bilbo_

As Bilbo watched, blinking groggily, Gandalf blew smoke rings in his masterful style by pursing his lips and letting out silent huffs, one for each ring.

”I wish I could do that...” Bilbo murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep, as the smoke evaporated and the scent of nettle tobacco reached his nostrils.

A slow smile formed on Gandalf's face and he lowered his pipe, looking down at Bilbo.

”My dear Bilbo. It warms my heart to see you awake.”

With his eyes sparkling, Gandalf looked just as delighted as he sounded and Bilbo gave him a groggy smile in return.

”How are you feeling, my boy?”

Bilbo assessed his condition, giving Gandalf's question the consideration it required. He felt warm, comfortably so, but not so much that he would have been feverish. Nothing ached, he wasn't in any physical pain.

Much to his surprise, he could tell Gandalf, ”I feel quite all right, thank you for asking.”

”That is excellent to hear,” mused the wizard, lifting the pipe up to his lips.

Yawning, Bilbo rubbed his eyes before pushing himself up into a sitting position, pleased to note that he was well enough to sit up on his own. He then reached out to give Gandalf a hug, embracing the wizard as well as he could in their awkward positions. Gandalf's robes felt coarse against his cheek and the scent of nettle tobacco was as strong as ever, but Bilbo didn't care.

”Oh, Gandalf,” he murmured onto the wizard's chest. ”You have no idea how lovely it is to see a friendly face. I am so relieved that you are now here with me! These few days... I don't even know how to begin to tell you. The last few days have been _horrible_ , absolutely horrible.”

”So I have heard, my boy,” Gandalf sighed gravely, patting Bilbo in the back with one hand while holding his pipe with the other. ”While you were sleeping, I learned of what you have been through, what you have experienced after the battle. I was told of the execution attempt and how you have run from the dwarrows time and a time again. You are quite resourceful, Bilbo, I must say. Hobbits never cease to surprise me, it seems.”

Bilbo shook his head sadly and gave Gandalf a bit of a squeeze before withdrawing.

”I was desperate, not resourceful,” he said, hanging his head. ”I thought... I thought _I would die_ , I thought _I would be killed by Th_ \- the dwarves,” Bilbo still couldn't say Thorin's name out loud, he felt as if the mere action would break him. ”You were my only hope, Gandalf, I looked for you, tried to search for you... Where have you been?”

”I have been here and there,” Gandalf's answer was full of remourse and as vague as the gesture he made with his hand. ”I went away... _but_ I also came back and now I am here.”

”Yes,” sighed Bilbo, resigning himself to the fact that he would never be able to understand the wizard as well as he wished to. ”I guess the most important thing is, indeed, that you are here now. Oh, how glad I am that you came back, that you are now here!”

”And I shall stay for as long as you will be needing me,” promised Gandalf, putting a hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

”Thank you,” was all Bilbo could say to that. ”And thank you for coming back. I... I appreciate it, very much so, more than I can ever say.”

”No need to thank me, my boy. I consider knowing you a privilege. Your mother would have been very proud of you.”

Bilbo didn't want to think of his mother, not at that moment, for he felt emotional enough as it was. Now that Gandalf had come back, he needed to stay sharp – Gandalf would soon tell him the truth of the matter, Gandalf would tell him whether Thorin wished him harm and Bilbo needed to be prepared for all possible outcomes if he wished to overcome the situation. If he became too emotional, he might not be able to do so.

It was a testament of how long he had spent with the dwarves – or rather, a testament of how close he had grown with a certain curt leader of the dwarves – that he now decided to go straight to the point instead of even trying to make polite, pointless conversation.

”Dwalin and Thranduil told me,” Bilbo thus spoke, clearing his throat, ”that you went to the camp of dwarves to find out whether Th-” _orin_ , ”the dwarves want me dead or not.”

”Indeed I did,” confirmed Gandalf, withdrawing his hand and leaning back in his chair. ”I visited one certain camp resided by dwarrows and spoke to their soon-to-be-king. It was all quite revealing.”

Bilbo's heart began to pound in his chest. Anticipation, fear, sorrow, trepidation, _hope_ – his feelings were a bewildering mix, a ball of yarn of different colours. He began to pluck fluff off his blanket to occupy his hands, no longer able to meet Gandalf's gaze, so much the answers meant to him – answers, answers to questions he couldn't even quite put to words.

”How were they?” he eventually asked the question that most weighed on his mind, and once he got the first question voiced, other questions came pouring out. ”Had Fili and Kili woken up yet? What about Th- their uncle? Were they getting better? Were their injuries grave? Was anyone else badly injured? Did you see Bofur? Do you know if the whole company survived the battle?”

”There is no need to worry for the dwarrows,” Gandalf assured him. ”Those members of the company who were injured in the battle are now steadily healing, and the rest are fine. It is so like you to ask after others even though you must worry for yourself as well.”

”And what did you find out?” he asked the blanket. ”Regarding my situation, I mean.”

It took a while for Gandalf to answer.

”I took a look into Thorin's mind,” Gandalf eventually spoke, his words lazed with audible regret. ”I gazed in him. I saw many scars, but I also found out the truth of the matter: I found out that he feels guilty for what has happened to you, that he feels guilt and worry, concern for you, that he feels frustration for the way he can't change the past, and regret for all he did when the dragon sickness took him in its grasp. I found out that his mind is now clear, the golden fog has indeed vanished.”

”The truth is, Bilbo,” Gandalf continued, ”that Thorin cares for you deeply – he thinks highly of you and considers it an honour to call you his friend. He didn't order your execution. It is as Balin told you: Dain misunderstood Thorin's request to 'take care of you' and what you have experienced in the past few days has been a direct result of that.”

Bilbo stared at the blanket, clenching the edge of it in his fists as if it was the only thing grounding him to reality, as new colours appeared into his yarn of emotions. His mind was in turmoil, he couldn't quite process what Gandalf had just told him. He didn't know what to think or say.

It wasn't that Bilbo wasn't happy to hear Gandalf's words because _he was_ , he really was. He felt faint with relief, he felt like... like...

_what_

What did he feel? 

He didn't know what he felt.

All he knew was that his heart was pounding painfully fast in his chest while his throat was so tight that it was almost like a lump of words and emotions had blocked up his airways in their hurry to get out all at once. He felt numb, in a way, even though his senses felt somehow hightened like he had been preparing himself for a fight.

”I-” he eventually managed in a hoarse voice, ”I will need to hear Thorin himself say that to believe it to be true. It's not that I don't trust you, Gandalf, because I _do_ trust you and your word, and I do know that you speak the truth, _I know it_ – my brain knows it – but to make my heart know it too, I will need to hear Thorin say that he still sees me as his friend, that he doesn't wish me harm.”

”Quite understandable, my boy,” Gandalf assured him, ”and it must be said that Thorin would have most likely followed me here to speak with you in person, but his nephews needed him by their side and so he had to stay. We can, however, go see him to the dwarven camp once you will feel up to it – Thorin has requested it and welcomes you back. Dwalin has already made the necessary preparations and we can leave at a moment's notice.”

”And you would come with me?” Bilbo made sure.

”Yes, of course. I will not leave your side until this matter has been cleared for good,” promised Gandalf with a firm nod.

* * *

_Day Nine_

_Thorin_

Thorin couldn't leave with his nephews, not now, not with a good conscience, and that's why he had to settle for waiting – hoping – that Gandalf would manage to convince Bilbo to come back for long enough for Thorin to offer his most sincere apologies, to beg for the hobbit's forgiveness, if necessary. He would get on his knees, he would speak from the heart – it would be the honourable thing to do. He hoped that Bilbo could find it in him to see that no ill will had been intended, that the dwarves still regarded him as a worthy friend.

When the news came that a wagon from the camp of elves was approaching, Thorin began to prepare for his meeting with Bilbo. He wore clean clothes and had his hair braided in a modest manner – he wanted to be presentable, but consciously avoided coming of as pompous as he did not want Bilbo to think for a moment that he was still under the curse of gold.

Thorin was nervous, which made his temper short and him irritable until eventually Fili sighed and told him to stop grinding his teeth because it sounded like thunder was approaching. Thorin snapped and told Fili to hold his tongue in the presence of his king and guardian, before he got up and began to pace, pretending that he hadn't seen Fili rolling his eyes at Kili.

Before Thorin knew it, Balin was already announcing Gandalf and Bilbo. With his mouth suddenly dry, he cleared his throat and granted them permission to enter.

And then there they were in his very tent, Gandalf with his powerful presence, supporting Bilbo who was leaning heavily against the wizard, holding onto the grey fabric for dear life, looking at Thorin with round eyes, with visible wariness, with fear, with _hope_ , and after them came in the entire company, all of them moving to stand near the tent walls, present but giving Bilbo and Thorin room.

Hadn't Bilbo just become the focus of Thorin's entire attention, he might have ordered the others to leave. As it now happened though, he stayed silent, unable to utter a word, his mind uncharacteristically blank.

”Bilbo,” Thorin barely heard Kili's whisper, so intently he was regarding the hobbit whom he now saw as a loyal, trustworthy friend.

Instinctively, Thorin took a step forward, towards Bilbo, reaching out a hand, only to come to a halt when Bilbo flinched back. The tips of Bilbo's ears reddened and he lowered his gaze down onto the ground, leaning even closer to Gandalf as if for support.

”Calm yourself, Bilbo,” Gandalf said in a soft voice and Thorin saw him giving Bilbo's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ”No-one here wishes you harm.”

”Indeed we do not,” Fili said. ”Please, Mr. Baggins, what has been done to you has been a terrible misunderstanding. Uncle Thorin meant you no harm.”

Slowly, Bilbo raised his head and gave Thorin a cautious, yet hopeful look. Thorin tried to smile, but found that he could not. Instead, he withdrew his reaching hand and bowed his head. Swallowing, he knelt down, wincing as his wounds protested the movement, waving Dwalin and Balin's assistant away before his cousins had managed to take but a step towards him.

”Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” he spoke, keeping his head bowed. ”I have lowered myself so that I am level with the ground instead of standing high as a mountain. In this way, I hope to show you that I am humbled, that I regret the wrongdoings you have had to endure in the hands of my kin and my own. I am truly sorry, I ask for your forgiveness.”

He didn't dare look up, even as he heard soft steps approaching. A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder and then, grunting in audible pain, Bilbo Baggins knelt onto the ground with him.

”Look me in the eye, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered. ”Look me in the eye so I can see for myself that the sickness has passed.”

Thorin did as he was asked – it was the least he could do for Bilbo; he would have done so much more had Bilbo only asked. He raised his head and met the hobbit's gaze as steadily as he could.

Bilbo's eyes were unreadable when they locked gazes. He studied Thorin for a long while, but eventually he seemed to find whatever he had been looking for as his chin began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears.

”Thorin,” Bilbo breathed out and his hand came to touch Thorin's neck, holding on, not too tightly. ”Thorin, my friend, it is as Gandalf said – you are yourself again.”

”Indeed I am,” Thorin said, ”and I am ready to make amends in any way you find suitable.”

Bilbo let out a strangled laugh which almost sounded like a sob and leant forward so that their foreheads touched.

”How about a hug for starters, my friend,” he said softly, ”would that do?”

It did doo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am EXTREMELY SORRY that it has taken me literally years to update this story. I began to write this fic before I had seen the third movie and it was difficult to continue writing it after I had seen it.
> 
> It has bothered me that I hadn't finished this fic so, three days ago when I began writing fanfiction again, I decided that I needed to finish this story, not only because it had bothered me but also because it was wrong of me to leave people hanging like I did. The ending of the fic might be rushed, but I hope you enjoyed the overall fic nevertheless.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!


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